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.
.
.