The Nighthawk ponders how and why
Now is today, will be yesterday,
And was once tomorrow.
Tackle time (he says to himself)
As a bouquet of roses, which,
Like so many other beauties
Will, quicker than a lie,
Whimper, lay down and die.
The Nighthawk now is more alone
Than any visible finite star.
He shivers despite the calefacient quilt
And the raging fire he has built.
The earth is made of bytes of matter,
Curiously crafted and joined to form
A solid living mass on which
We stride the day, long in light,
On which we lay our weary heads
When the Nighthawk nightly spreads
His quilt upon our shivering shoulders.
Warmth can come from a southern breeze:
When the heart beats and breathes.
No warmth will willingly come
From northern gales: the head's details.
Wander the world, quoth the Nighthawk,
As does the tiger burning bright
In the forests of the night,
In the jungle's warming breath
till timeless time whistles death.