it's strange, like a dream

It's strange, like a dream: in the deep shadows of evening
to tumble down into narrow lanes, and rest my eyes
on the blind walls of darkness and search for black, leafless branches
which the wind has pressed against the violet sky
like characters in a strange alphabet - now it's blowing
these signs into strands of smoke.
The light from distant windows, reflections of stars and gleaming eyes
slide slowly over the bark, shadows emerge from below,
and the reflection runs along the bars and disappears
in the depths of the lane -
a trembling runs like a wave along the soft shades of sky
torn at the bottom by the darkness of stone houses and poles
flat as stage sets, sharp and unreal . . . - T. Borowski