Two blighted legs
Holding a blind Sun.
The morning rays – gone to work
On the other side of the sky,
Rather than its threshold.
The Noon is beyond the Pale.
Cavorting with thunders,
She’s never at home.
The evening takes to the road,
The bedstead on her back,
She’s begging on some constellation.
Only the Night appears,
With outstretched arms,
To welcome a blind Sun.
