Sunday Verse
Nightfall
by Octavio Paz
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.
