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Night falls like a spiral staircase as the evening descends. The trees in the courtyard are like refugees mapping their return in the sky. On the roof, the moon turns the stars into a glistening dust as it shines lovingly down. Dark green shadows ripple towards the speaker from every corner, threatening to break over them like waves of pain from remembering their separation from their lover. However, the speaker finds consolation knowing that no tyranny can extinguish the moon, so their prison evening, strangely sweet under the moonlight, will sustain them through any poison of torture.
Night falls like a spiral staircase as the evening descends. The trees in the courtyard are like refugees mapping their return in the sky. On the roof, the moon turns the stars into a glistening dust as it shines lovingly down. Dark green shadows ripple towards the speaker from every corner, threatening to break over them like waves of pain from remembering their separation from their lover. However, the speaker finds consolation knowing that no tyranny can extinguish the moon, so their prison evening, strangely sweet under the moonlight, will sustain them through any poison of torture.
Night falls like a spiral staircase as the evening descends. The trees in the courtyard are like refugees mapping their return in the sky. On the roof, the moon turns the stars into a glistening dust as it shines lovingly down. Dark green shadows ripple towards the speaker from every corner, threatening to break over them like waves of pain from remembering their separation from their lover. However, the speaker finds consolation knowing that no tyranny can extinguish the moon, so their prison evening, strangely sweet under the moonlight, will sustain them through any poison of torture.
night comes down the spiral staircase of the evening. The breeze passes by so very close as if someone just happened to speak of love. In the courtyard, the trees are absorbed refugees embroidering maps of return on the sky. On the roof, the moon - lovingly, generously - is turning the stars into a dust of sheen. From every corner, dark-green shadows, in ripples, come towards me. At any moment they may break over me, like the waves of pain each time I remember this separation from my lover.
This thought keeps consoling me:
though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed in rooms where lovers are destined to meet, they cannot snuff out the moon, so today, nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed, no poison of torture make me bitter, if just one evening in prison can be so strangely sweet, if just one moment anywhere on this earth.