The Book Of Night - Four

Interlude I swear the nights the nights are too much Nights when poems are made and unmade Nights when we are tempted to leave the substance for the Shadow Nights that I press secretly against my heart Andre Breton The crescent moon is as bright as the sword of a samurai master. It has already sliced the clouds from the sky, they tumbled haphazardly below the horizon. The sky is empty, only its dark blue color attests to its existence. But its grandeur extends for one thousand feet across the rocky terrain: a blue cushion punctured by gray knives. The air that bleeds invisibly rises to sustain us. Nothing is left here to disturb the scene's calm, unless my Faustian thoughts cause such harm. But night itself empowers me to declare an Interlude, a respite from effort, even the effort to be silent. Let be. My will I suspend. It will not resist. My thoughts I abandon. They know their way home. Together we have created this nocturnal moment with help of beautiful language. It is enough. Let all of them assume the posture of statues, they can become frozen music for a while.