The Interrupted Concert
of the half moon
has broken the harmony
of the deep night.
The ditches, shrouded in sedge,
protest in silence,
and the frogs, muezzins of shadow,
have fallen silent.
In the old village inn
the sad music has ceased,
and the most ancient of stars
has muted its ray.
The wind has come to rest
in dark mountain caves,
and a solitary poplar—Pythagoras
of the pure plain—
lifts its aged hand
to strike at the moon.
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