Now this is a city held by winter,
and this is a glass splinter.
Now this is a day as short as a short vowel,
and this is a night as long as a wandering owl.
Now this is how brilliance fails,
and this is the sun wearing hundreds and hundreds of veils.
Now this is a road scratched in a black window,
and this is what men and women do.
Now this is a black dress in a storm,
and this is a table spilling with charm.
Now this is the lip of a moment,
and this is what they both partly wanted.
Now this is a door made of pages,
and these are the large eyes of your rages.