The man and the dog

With the twilight that counts the leaves beneath my balcony, across the plateaus of the unwritten like a legacy without a signature left to my view that can never reach out and beyond all the architectures that I've created in my sight there walk tonight the man and his dog. Step by step beneath the chestnut trees, past the benches of despair being sat by the mere shadows of Prevert, along the paths through the park, there walk tonight the man and his dog.
The former counts the trails of the soaking wet birds, there's so much rain, God, there's too much rain. He counts the trails among the leaves like stars collected off the Milky Way long ago cut off by the blade of the Moon, stars that lie asleep. There's a walk of a human sky beyond them, he walks the way a human walks and he sniffs like a dog.
The latter blindly follows his master's footsteps thinking of the bird that's got no shoes but wings only and the flight with Leibniz's dedication among the best of the worlds as he, the dog, has been thrown out it, leafed through the pages of the world's sages, a dog's life, indeed it is, to be haunted by wilderness and still pant in exhaustion by the master's feet.
Down the silver, grey and ashen hairs of the night it pours through the walk with the rain for the growth, breastfed by the drop of the midnight dew they  both drink rain to the honour of the dawn, there walk tonight the man and his dog.