/lit/ - Literature

I have never seen in my entire life
The nocturne hour entomb life
In such a complete way with its silence.
The darkness was so dense, so
Thick the grimy blanket of the shadows,
That it even seemed like some God, drunk,
Had knocked down, when he stumbled,
The bucked of nankin in which the night
Wets the brush that invokes the evening hours,
With the black ink of an entire month gorging
A single twilight; or maybe some
Ambassador of the skies, some minister
Of the clouds has spilled the cup
Of coffee that he was sipping above
The atmosphere, frightening the timid world
Of us mortals, that do not comprehend anything
Of the clergy and the politics of the heavens,
Of the gears and wheels that operate the universe.