It is the esoteric word that,

Weaving through the birches’ fingers,

Touches the predawn in her tottering

Slumber.

There is no syllable divine can

Mend the broken eyes and mind

Like that which came when

Midnight fled.

And gliding over the silver-grass,

The wind that signifies cool dawn,

With prodding whispers,

Recloaks the mind in swathes

Of former days.

Aurora is reborn as are

The silent twistings of a heart.

It is like water falling;

Though never the same,

It is all of the like clan.

Like birches dancing,

Singing with no words

Year after year,

All your life,

Yet they too shall

Fade away.