Valete:

Withal, an impoverishment, you think;

or a beauty of the world obscured by delusion or illusion?

A bit transcendental, perhaps,

or not; perhaps

a dream that can be reconciled

by the artistic muse

that floats within itself; or not.

A plethora of light that is quite void.

And lines on a page that are lost for sense,

or sensitivity, or love

for a landscape

that doesn't exist any more.

Requiem centuria americanae.