On this evening pure and free,
by Peter Rolny
The sun is sinking below the sea.
A strand of trees and mountains blare,
While flowers trumpet in the air,
As if touched by an angel's veil.
But this is not an angels' hail:
A wind fills the cavernous mind.
An echo rings in hollow pride.
Convictions raise the mouth to dwell
On the love from whose lips I fell.