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 her 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.

.

.