The moon drops across the Belt of Venus.
Below, the town melts in the rising fog,
slowly—streets, buildings, steeples.
Uniform and liquid, the glow seeps in.
None that shines, as it reveals nothing,
it proclaims itself—pristine soft light.
Beyond the panes, memories start a dance.
Steps with no pattern—harmonious, though,
performed as if to sketch the secret townscape.
Thoughts soon prevail, the glow intensifies.
They don’t dance but march through the fog—
if invisible, they know the sun is right in front.
