Many a mouldy mantilla
surround the lights like a veil,
shapeless shores of myopia,
met me early in the trail.
To a lad with glassy countenance,
came a haze following the smoke,
a kinsman dubbed astigmia
to lend next layer to the cloak.
In the deepening ink of eventide,
hyperopia awaits like a nightfall,
like a bird entrapped in the middle
of a mountain and a squall.
But it pours more than it rains,
the haloed rainbows of headlights
on the roads hiss past with omens
of impending charcoal nights.
What is the aroma of darkness I ask,
What is the song of a burning sun?
Is it the world in a nebulous mask,
Or a cocoon the eyes can’t shun?