I weep when the sun goes down because it takes you from my sight and I am not congenial with its nocturnal rivals. Although it is now low, and has no fever, I cannot keep it from declining, suspend its shedding of leaves, or glean more longing from its moribund glimmer. Going, it melts you in darkness, as the alluvium of the bed liquifies in the water of the current, out beyond the falling earth of the wasting banks. Hardness and softness differ in their origins, but here have similar effects. I am no longer granted the hymn of your words; suddenly you appear no longer whole at my side; this is not the nervous spindle of your wrist I hold in my hand but the hollow branch of some tree or other, dead and already sawed up. Nothing any longer has a name, except the shudder. It is night. The fireworks flaring show that I am blind.
I wept in truth only once. The sun when it disappeared cut off your face. Your head rolled into the grave of the sky and I no longer believed in tomorrow.
Which is the man for morning, and which for the dark?
[MAC]