Her name was Melancholy, and her hair was strong like rainy days, straightly hung and adament, a frame for cobalt eyes whose narrow pupils knew those worried things of beauty and of angst. She went out in the evenings so the shadows played in high relief along the street before the lamps would burn, charcoal silk against the dying gasps of daylight and she let its golden exhalation paint her darker still, carry her in saffron questions for the moment just before the wakeful dust is cleared.

Hopeful Melancholy, singing to the sparrows fateful lullabies in words that all the nightengales would understand, singing them to sleep beneath the wilted green of oaks, inside an ashen light whose stars will have their days somewhere too distant.

#Melbourne #Australia

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