Octavio Paz

Nightfall

What sustains it, half-open, the clarity of nightfall, the light let loose in the gardens? All the branches, conquered by the weight of birds, lean toward the darkness. Pure, self-absorbed moments still gleam on the fences. Receiving night, the groves become hushed fountains. A bird falls, the grass grows dark, edges blur, lime is black, the world is less credible.