The Tale of Night

The night is quiet, the heavens untroubled.

Beneath, the ripples of the ocean march in timid complacency.

From a lonely window, I watch,

As the night tells its tale,

Of faraway skies that fill with the smoke of rage and destruction,

A rage whose slow stillness silences the night.

A signal of the end of Time,

The mourning of a people who watch

A pendulum that swings only to the hours of living death.

 

But the night remains quiet, the skies sing in knowing sorrow.

Beneath, the ocean reveals only the secrets you seek,

A slow march of timid complacency,

That tells the tale of night,

 

A tale in which the laughter of youth rings,

Born amidst the bustling streets, yet

Indifferent to the hopelessness of mankind,

In which the value of life is nothing,

But ability to dream.

 

And still the night remains quiet, the skies stand guard

The ocean marches to the drums of Time,

Ever knowing of the stillness of the world.

 

The stillness of an air filled with the illusions of power,

The whispers of greedy hallucination,

Those who know not the laughter,

To which a parallel universe sings.

 

Yet time after time, the night remains quiet,

Singing to the stillness of a world of whispers,

And ringing laughter,

Forever bound together by the same universe.

As if there was no such thing as Time.

 

Time never existed,

Not to the living dead,

Not to greedy whispers,

Never in dreams.

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