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At midnight, in my place of woe,

I stand beneath the mystic glow.

It seems to fall into conscious rest

and absorb the dark within its breast.

Oh why must such sorrow dwell

so silently above these trees,

dancing on the autumn winds

and singing with the forest's breeze?

And why must such sadness flow

so vastly through the mountain tops,

dripping from the moon's gold rim

unto my hands, drop by drop?

How badly the moon wants to shed her skin,

never to waste her light again,

and how badly she wants to leave the sky

as her tears shed black against the night.

The moon, she sleeps, oh let her sleep;

let her dream in silence in night's sacred keep;

may she bask in shadows beneath my wings,

forever black as the sky's ageless ring...