The night is dark, no one comes. Even my thoughts, scorn my company,
A tree branch rustling, on a thin tent wall. Reminds me of silence, an elder symphony,
The forest is like that, when the shadows lay thick, and sounds are swallowed with a respectful bow,
You feel weightless, empty, in the vastness of space. Like a lonely figurehead, on a foggy prow,
So you enliven this absence with your brush, or your pen, and with a stroke, you bring it to life,
You give it expession, a face, a vioce to sing. Then in your solitude, become it’s wife.