The Evening primrose how it flourishes
in the midst of its blacken night.
Glistening glares of the promising stars,
suspended in the soft melodies of the moonflower.
For my soul longs to sing the songs of the night,
but all I could do is murmur the noise of discord
pouring out of the crevices from my fragmented heart;
A song of discouragement and gloom.
For the night goes on
I hear the whispering tales of Lady Fern
to four o’clock in the morning
awaiting the angels trumpet to sound
at the glorious rising of the enlightened lotus
why is my heart so deeply filled with sorrow?
Should not my heart skip a beat
as the leaping doe on the rugged heights of its mountains?
I am paralyzed with fear
for it will not allow me to be serenaded by its delight
Oh, how I long for my soul to see the night as the morning glory!
For she rejoices with the song of the morning despite her ailing soul.
Forget-Me-Not, Night Blooming Jasmine, Queen of the Night,
Pour on me your sweet majestic fragrance
for the odor of death overwhelms my declining soul.
The moonlight continues to shine so bright as the
Night Rose plays her violin
passionate songs of her burning heart
waiting for her secret lover to rise from his sleep
For why am I not enraptured by the lyrics of her passion?
For I hear only the mourning of the dark crimson rose
Growing in the fertile soil of my bitterness.
Perhaps, I am not fashioned after the magnificent courage
of these delicate yet valiant beings
But, maybe I am.
For the night is same as the day.

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