The horns of dusk
echo dull-quiet
from somewhere bending far away
to fill me and us
with melancholic sounds
of the end
that seem so unfair
and that absence
of the most vital part
which was lost
along the river current
carrying bowls and baskets
bobbing, touching and tearing away
to roar over the edge
and into the void
so vast
that everything is too far apart
to ever touch again,
to ever spark another horn
and never another dusk
and not so much as an echo
to quiver through the air,
through that snuffing void
that offends with its utter apathy,
with its cold
that starts me trembling
and ends us
slowly
and quietly
and
doesn't
care
at
all