Nighttime grants imagination its wings
To soar far above the day's common things,
And as my lids gently veil weary eyes,
A voice in my head whispers lovely lies:
"Come, dear, make haste! This day's in retreat,
The hour of enchantment now lies at your feet;
Let your dreams run wild -- command what you will,
Sing passion's song! . . . though Love's own voice be still"
Whispered desires summon gentle hands
To caress and embrace, as love demands;
A warm breath turns into a searing kiss --
A seductive touch, a moment of bliss
Each fantasy I conceive becomes real,
(These are the moments that Fate cannot steal;
Though flaunting its might, it has not the power
To slay these thoughts or vandalize this hour)
And so with golden threads of make-believe,
Romantic overtures are mine to weave;
Such love is mine till night opens the door
To the sun's first rays . . . . . then love is no more
