It is on silent nights like these
That I revel into myself deeply
Opening to the world’s soft breeze
Ever so gently, ever so simply,
I swallow the ethers and her light frame
Engulfing every possible
Attempting to make my delicate claim
With no knowledge of sensible,
Sadly, in the end, ’tis morning
And its pale knight which catches up always
Happily to my eyes, mourning,
In pines of winter, in the long summer,
Dawn is the lady moon who sways
– Siren – the rough tides around my drummer.
To she whom the wise goddess hold in her palm.