its as still as a graveyard
the forest hasn't dropped its cloak.
the birds are deep in their deathly slumber,
the owl twisting in the old oak.
the mist blows like the stream,
only the sound is that of a drizzle.
like caravans of abandoned gypsies,
drops cover what's not their territory!
the silver light floods through the still.
not a movement of the worms.
the snake entwined with the creeper,
like awaiting its joyous scum!
the light fades,
the disc becomes a crescent.
the fog makes faces.
darkness is welcomed with muted gasps,
the holy waters, the only sound.
its no diamond ring,
but just a band of platinum
upon the cold fingers of the night...
