The Night

cold and barren,

the windswept fields,

dark and gray,

in the moonlight,

walking

through wooded

meadows;

she calls

and I must

go;

her voice

beckoning my soul

to come

lie at her

feet;

she washes my face

with raven hair,

wet with teardrops

from things

unseen,

unknown;

in her arms

I know no

fear;

she is the night,

when she calls

no man

resists her voice;

she is the darkness

living in us

all.

.

.