Now mourned’s the passing peace of night, its flight flown with the scorching licks of star-fire at its torn ‘n frayed heels.
Silent morning. Earthly peace. Servant girl re-swaddles.
Soundless stands each stretch of houses.
Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.
A spring begets a stream becomes a river raising tides.