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.

.

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