I seek someone, but who is she?
Or rather, who is She?
In the faces that go by, not a one --
only inklings.
Then other times,
when my heart and my eyes are clear,
I stop, to dream unholy dreams.
And in such a dream
my lover speaks to me:
she makes the wind to be her voice.
Her eyes, like stars in the night sky,
her hair a black moonlight
that brushes my cheeks.
For she is that sky,
that pale and somber moon.
I call out to her in yearning pleas
and through my open door she comes.
