You are a peace whose stillness unfolds the mysteries of those awakened spirits who soar in the highest heaven. Day is a noise whose effects trouble the souls of those trampled under the hooves of desires and novelties.

In deep darkness you are the just ruler who reconciles the dreams of the weak and the hopes of the strong. You are tender, you whose invisible fingers gently close the eyes of the wretched, bearing their hearts to a world less harsh than this.

Lovers whisper among the folds of your blue-black robe. The desolate spill their tears at your dew-covered feet. Exiles place their sighs of helpless yearning in your palms, your palms perfumed with the scents of the valleys. Thus are you the confidant of lovers, the friend of the lonely, the companion of the exile and the desolate.

The sentiments of poets steal through your shadows. The hearts of the prophets are borne upon your shoulders. Among your tresses is found the genius of thinkers. You instruct the poets, inspire the prophets, advise the people of thought and contemplation.

When my soul wearies of people and my eyes tire of staring into the face of day, I go to those distant fields where the ghosts of past ages become still.

There I stand before a dark and solid being, a being that trembles and goes upon a thousand feet above the plains and mountains and valleys.

There I stand staring with eyes of darkness, listening to the rustle of unseen wings, sensing the touch of robes of silence, courageous among the terrors of the dark.

There I see you, Night, a fearful beautiful form rising between earth and heaven, clothed in clouds, wrapped in mist, laughing at the sun and mocking the day, scorning the creatures sitting wakeful before their idols, raging at kings sleeping beneath silk and brocade, staring at the faces of thieves, watching near the cradles of infants, weeping at the smiles of the depraved, smiling at the tears of lovers, raising with your right hand great hearts, crushing beneath your feet petty souls.