As the village sleeps a seaway cascades
through the heavens in playful swirls
across a celestial sphere.
Curious stars poke their faces through
a busy sky, not to be forgotten
or undone by lights from windows below,
a production of glowing embers
atop a stark indigo canvas.
Curls of wind hiss and swirl
a coquettish dance as the moon keeps watch
and warms the world, above and below.
Who is that sinister being that lurks
so close to the eye as the valley sleeps below?
Is that you, Vincent,
painting the turmoil of your mind?

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