The Evening Is Over

A cube knocking against the glass-made pier, a nectar of gods is poured. The evening is over, the tension too, an eyelid like a dam against the tear, on festive days or days endured. A breeze of hyssop blossoms it shall bring, the sip will not be late thereafter. The evening is over, the tension too. The challenger abandons the ring, and in her embrace finds cover. In blood she enters my vein, like a blot of ink she shall spread. The evening is over, the tension too. She is an idol; I, all in all, a man, suckling at her nipples, revived, I shall sleep like the dead. The evening is over.