The evening cries,
But I don’t understand her;
Her voice is faint,
Yet echoes past the waves –

Magenta spreads
Where oft we would meander —
In murmurs soft,
Like whispers over graves

And as the purple
Sun sets in its glory,
I find that you
Are back, and on my mind

The evening cries,
Disconsolate with mourning:
As I, I think,
Might also be
Inclined