*after the lasses have retired for the night
and after the village rascals have gone too
you can hear the sounds of silence ebbing
after the shimmering silvery moon has risen
and after the shy stars have twinkled their best
you can see articulate shapes dance the night away
after the village dogs have stopped their yelping
and after the hyenas have begun their mirthless laughs
you can feel the fingers of fear clutch at your timid heart
after the moonlight reveries have receded everywhere
and after all the good people of this world have shut their doors
you can be silent witnesses to a dance of the shadows
after the morning star has begun to beckon from its perch
and after some of the dancing shapes have thinned out
there's a place in your heart where the memories never fade
this empty arena where the maestros showed their mettle
and these hollow hills that echoed their rustic music
are all that's left after the silhouettes dissipate and are gone
in stupefied wonder i ask: is life but a walking, dancing mist
and the sightless but visioned shadows leer at me in sordid glee
they say life has always been this heaving and howling*
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 4:51 AM UTC
*after the lasses have retired for the night
and after the village rascals have gone too
you can hear the sounds of silence ebbing
after the shimmering silvery moon has risen
and after the shy stars have twinkled their best
you can see articulate shapes dance the night away
after the village dogs have stopped their yelping
and after the hyenas have begun their mirthless laughs
you can feel the fingers of fear clutch at your timid heart
after the moonlight reveries have receded everywhere
and after all the good people of this world have shut their doors
you can be silent witnesses to a dance of the shadows
after the morning star has begun to beckon from its perch
and after some of the dancing shapes have thinned out
there's a place in your heart where the memories never fade
this empty arena where the maestros showed their mettle
and these hollow hills that echoed their rustic music
are all that's left after the silhouettes dissipate and are gone
in stupefied wonder i ask: is life but a walking, dancing mist
and the sightless but visioned shadows leer at me in sordid glee
they say life has always been this heaving and howling*
