At Midnight Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Good night weary wisdom’s fading.
Tonight no one plays elusive
to the sallow smile of pale stars
and no shadow has come out to play.

Death has no further say
as day falls into broken night
and all haunting rites
of dim art and intangible ascendance
amplify all vindictive voices
lost far behind in a burning blame
filling all lament with salt.

Time is cruel at midnight’s falling.
All shanty shards
look for a sea to put to sleep
with reflecting waves of the final blue
where reason continually repeats itself.