Torn pages flutter deep
Into dark-golden abyss
Tears of ink fall where books weep
Flying in flame-like bliss

Sun stretches golden fingers
And reaches through broken rooftops
To catch those falling poets and singers
And the frail paper of their mental crops

Those pages crackling, bristling
With thin veils of smoke rising from the piles
No one ever heard these flames whisper
Yet maybe it's golden Dustthat rises from the files

Wind carries parchment back and fourth
Dancing in whirls of solemn waltz
Love letters above float
Telling of flaming hearts
Among the rubble and debris they lay
Those sacred words of subtle lines
Etched inside from dark inwells
Torn pages telling of forgotten times