In the night and the moon the float of the dome is a dream-whisper, a croon of a hope: “Not today, child, not today, lover; maybe tomorrow, child, maybe tomorrow, lover.”
Can a dome of iron dream deeper than living men?
Can the float of a shape hovering among tree-tops—can this speak an oratory sad, singing and red beyond the speech of the living men?
A mother of men, a sister, a lover, a woman past the dreams of the living—
Does she go sad, singing and red out of the float of this dome?
