Come along now,
Come and let me walk
With you.

Walk by my side
Walk in the endless night
‘Till the moon reaches its zenith, the stars
Bequeath us their shine.
Trees are obscurities above our eyes;
They keep us away, far away
From all that is menacing.

I lie on the ground, on the grass,
Where the milk of the sky
Has drenched the pathways
On which our footsteps breathe
Quietly.
The key that resides
In your pocket quietly rattles,
So to speak the song
Of nightingales and wraithlike winds
And hushed memoirs
Silently singing in the mind.

Hurry along now,
Into night’s sombre,
Outstretched arms and
I will follow.

shadows are born from light,
but darkness is not the absence of sight
so follow the stars in their endless flight,
O child of the night.

where light meets the shade
is where the journey begins,
with no horizon the eye can see
so too the boundless feeling within.

His blade
is a stainless mirror
with edges tempered
to bend and breathe
a mortal whisper.

It cuts perfectly inside
the one who crosses the night,
restlessly tearing its blinding veil
for a glimpse of tomorrow's light.

The wanderer sleeps
with the enemy within,
ready to pierce his life
in a single dream

and so he enters —unafraid,
the endless doors of undoing,
for all that empties into the blade
is a lightness of his own becoming.

Deep the wounds may be
yet he never bleeds;
His blade is an undying breath
when Death follows beyond him.

Every night
the Moon follows him

casting her eyes upon
a silver landscape

like a luminous guide
they travel together, him and her.

Across the sky
the stars bow as they pass

so do the trees sigh
even on days she's hiding

or shy— he can't tell,
only gaze

until she appears
when the darkest phase

is over and the clouds
part for her entrance,

when she is full
and everything's bright again

The moon crashes
into ocean night spilling
iridescence o'er me,
o'er half-opened eyes.
Bathed in the soft glow
of my friend holding me
beneath dappled shadows of
a whispering tree, I wake
from infinite dream to return
a blossoming flower—
A light has come to me now
in this midnight hour.