Like the voice of a silver star,

Heard now from afar,

soft and quiet, beauty calls

Out of the dreaming rain;

Upon the neon-tinted horizon

Murmuring music falls,

Never to rise again.

Voice of the flames that die,

in fallen whispers

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On ruinous gardens waning

by ungathered bouquets

Voices of hope

and the midnight sun

In my heart, these two are one,

Fair the petals falling

drifting on golden winds,

fire-flecked hope residing

in sunset-haunted

hollow skies.