A poet is a nightingale
Who sits in darkness in the wood

He sings to cheer his solitude
With sweet sounds noone's ever heard




"In His Land of Dreams"

Candles lit, I sit in a familiar place.
She walks slow, step by step, with a strong dash of grace.
The lights are off through the room, dimly lit faces.
Not my family, just thoughts in trance for many days.

One hundred billion stars light the cake.