The mists ride the dusk's last rays
and all vanishes into darkness.
Nothing remains, or so it seems.
Yet there is always something hidden.
Faint against the dawn bird's caw,
barely on the wind that runs so far,
is a flying flower.
Not of earth,
but of fire, sky, and moon.
Only hapless fellows know when
it comes and when it goes.
Yet little do they know of
the secrets not shown.
For the flower is ethereal,
beauteous and so very unknown.