The story the night tells is more versed than any other tale.
It lies out there, with its covers spread wide, so vast and open,
whispering to us of thoughts and deeds long past.
The night tells of toil and peace, a tale of death, beauty and death.
By love, by passion and sacrifice, sorrowful death as well.
Murderous greed and hate and evil.
The night sidles up close, wraps its arms around you and shares its vision,
the imagery only sharpened by the faint light of the moon.
The saga, tragic and terrifying, will frighten you, then comfort you with murmurs.
Cast and witness in one, the story is never done.
Each close of evening it continues.
Yet with the vaguest hint of knowledge we could possibly glean;
that of survival, of trust, of hope,
we can never know the end.
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