I.
I have heard of summers bereft of lanterns:
when the billows dishearten the sterns
and the cicadas are refused their echoes.

At eventide, along serenades and brimming
drums under the moonlight, gleaming—
over untied wishes as they perch

on untouched canopies and
patiently— under the lightless cradle.

Unto the iridescent fire-flower:
I pray for a summer dyed pink.

(but the flames cling still to the wicks.)


II.
In a port where dreams lift their anchors,
awaits a maiden solus, fiery with ardour—
full of dreams; her strides full of lush!

With most endearment, dare she asks:
if a lieu would be spared in her name;
if our hearts would remain stark aflame,

upon farewell, at her swan-song?

Towards a city where stars end:
She marches and points her north.

(like an ember left aghast without its light,
the unending summer at the back of my mind.)


III.
A lone maiden stands at summer's end;
wishes tied on mahogany, her colours—
dyed the expanse cerulean awhole,
and its interpause, in mirthful rose.