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It was late in the morning when the sun was finally persuaded to rise, rinsing his gleaming teeth of fire with yours at the nasty slipstream of memories, crushing angry passion flowers and wild berries among your virgin forests to face the day like a man as he must without you . . . and why must you be always so cold and serene like the distant stars? this sunny day is like any other among the serenade of sorrows that remind you of cold battles foregone and old soldiers deserted like nobody’s mundane business . . . it was late in the evening when all the bottles of perfume finally rushed to woo you and your aroma and musk of richness that made the sun go quietly down across the yonder rivers like a dandy whimper . . . and so the sun must rise and the sun must set and the sun must cry and wry its useless hands till you’re aflame and nearly all your rivers go all so blatantly dry