My room, the moonlight bright,
A quill, in my hand, a poem, I write.
Sing-songs like the piano,
Each word echoes into the night;
My blank page, powdered with joy,
Blushing azure like the morning universe.
The cosmic rays, like colored neons,
Dazzle the manless world, hung on a thin rope
And await the first chant of the proud rooster, somewhere out there in the cold.
Gloomy and noiseless, this is the midnight hour of winter;
A poet, from the auburn soil, I emerge,
A true star, soon, to soar above all.
