The Night (version 1 – 126 lines)

O my beautiful Night
it was you whom I created
first. In this delightful darkness
lies the essence of life
from which springs deep slumber,
from which the reflection of Dream
pours through the pores of clouds
and percolates through to a conscience.
Lying in the air is the spirit
of past souls’ desolate beauty,
and the wide-open sky
teases sleep in tickling night wind.

 

I walk into the starry wind
embraced by my creation. Night
caresses me as the sky
holds each orb it created
in strongly iridescent beauty.
Under the smooth violet of darkness
I walk, each step like a spirit
going out into the nights of life,
and my long-dormant conscience
stirs from dizzy slumber
to soar in freedom through the clouds
and trouble my chaotic dreams.

 

Thoughts of darkness, death, and dream
fly through my mind, a tearing wind
deeply missing the intangible clouds
that pad the imagination of the night,
whose all-pervading slumber
permeates the mauve sky,
and whose twisted conscience
made malevolence. Created
from lust, my Night of life
revels in its perfect beauty,
revels in its pristine spirit
that subjugates to its darkness.

 

The immense, melancholy darkness
fuels my frenetic dreams
as the ephemeral spirits
fan the hot solar winds
into flowing shapes of beauty,
through the high, cold clouds
to an entirely new life
of their own. In the night
(which is beautiful and whom I created)
there is a dreamy slumber
that weighs on my conscience
as much as it kisses the sky.

 

I climb through my sky
into the completing darkness
which envelopes my conscience
and percolates into my dreams.
In each nightly slumber
there are demons, angels, spirits
that follow the One I created
through the burning winds.
O my tranquil starry Night,
treasure your calm beauty
that you may see your light of life
with heavenly bodies above the clouds.

 

The summits emerge shyly through clouds
which obscure their feet from the sky
and deceive the thoughts of Life
whose deeply disturbing darkness
imbues this Night, this Life with a beauty
unparalleled—even to Pan’s conscience
of the musics of the Night
and the melodies among threads of dream.
On wings of song I ride the winds,
even in dreamless slumber
with my creation, my Night I created
with a desire and love in spirit.

 

O my sombre Night whose spirit
I made with the essence of clouds.
A deceitful spirit I created
for you, that you could rend the starry skies
and tear the blanket of slumber.
Impurities you have none; I made Life
accept your perfection. The winds
of Charybdis stir the darkness
where Euterpes sings in a dream,
in laments and elegies of beauty,
and my sweetest Night
suppresses her overflowing conscience.

 

It weighs heavily on my conscience
that this creation, this dark spirit
I gave to the world. I wanted Night
kept by me, irradiating the clouds
with an ecstatic beauty
so that the spirits I created
are intertwined like dreams. A dream
lives high in Olympian skies,
on the mountain with no darkness
and where Light never slumbers.
Poseidon looses the winds,
that the waves of water can have life.

 

This creation, I give her life
to release my burdened conscience
from blowing away with the wind,
swayed by her of my spirit;
she would have me slumber
deep in her embrace. O Night:
you who are my closest darkness
take me past the cirrus clouds
that hang like powder in the sanguine skies,
so I may see your crystal beauty—
that I pray is not, is not, a dream.
You are me, whom I created.

O my sultry Night I created
you first, to have such life
that you feed on raw dreams.
I, whose long-dead conscience
allowed you to manifest beauty
in fragrances and perfumes of wind.
I ride you into red-rimmed skies
and each glowing star’s spirit
hides its face (in awe) in the clouds
to fall into shining slumber.
I created this incandescent darkness
and I have called her my Night.

As hungry winds rip through the sky
and sing to praise the beauty of Night’s spirit,
my conscience tells me to draw the cloud
curtains on Mankind’s dreams. And her peaceful slumber
yields me to the light of Life at which darkness
recoils. It is I who created—first—the Night.

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