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Poem

Quiet
is the night
hearing the stars sigh,
learning of the clouds whisper of rain;
ready to wash the streets of footsteps with no stories.

She watches the earth very slowly ponder about its self:

How will the day be when it comes...
Shall I Become lovely like when I first came...
My children are so young but their digging my grave...
And as all tired mothers I have no time to teach them...

Night hesitates to put her hands on questions not her own.
She simply lingers as always and observes without wanting.
But, the need to stay dark has always been her chasm;
her cut off to be sought for and needed by many that mask in her thoughts,
play in her dreams and die in her wake.

She never sleeps
Always drifting to different parts of the world,
so those could sleep or live in her hours.
So many tales she could tell from the beginning,
but no one knows her words or has the age to listen.

All she could do
is close her eyes and pretend...

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