When I wake in the dead of night, by the sound of shadows

chasing the frail moonlight, to see Dream hanging in the air,

Going nowhere, I do not weep, whilst the dark does seep from that

dying Dream, so it seems that all with it will cease to be. Then

when my eyes finally again see nothing save the pale moonlight, I

feel no need to fight any tears away, as there alone I lay, waiting

for Nights shredded shroud of day. I weep not even when the

fleeting Image has passed by, for the lonely never do cry.