And if the old oak in the yard
should never again blossom life
and cede its soil for a bed of death;
if the sea shone mirror-like
without hint of a ripple;
its tide lost, in the breath of a burgundy dawn.
If the sun should collapse in the zenith sky
and spew fiery rains of indignation,
or if the rosebuds lost forever,
Their ambition to bloom;
and grew inclined to ignore springs whispers.
If the midnight sky—
with its thousand points of light
turned aphotic, as it swallowed the moon.
If the ...