Walking Home Alone Poem by Fruchtbeine sonn

The night takes delight in concealing
But gives for the vision it takes
Sharpened senses of hearing and feeling
To interpret the noises it makes.

I hear in the night secret whispers
Of demons who meet, clandestine,
To inhabit the sisters at vespers:
'Rendezvous in the churchyard pristine, '
Say the murmurs that whisper like men.
And the sounds in the bushes that answer
Speak with voices that promise 'Again
We shall try, and again we shall die,
And again we shall ride in the dusk through the sky,
And again, when the iron gates, opening, creak
As they carry us back here and somberly lay
Our remains in this ground, which is us anyway,
Then again we shall meet, and again we shall speak,
And the cynics will learn we are not put away
For eternity just because mere flesh is weak;
For the spirit is willing. And so when the bleak
Sunday evening with storm clouds turns pale blue skies gray
We shall meet - we shall haunt them - for this is our play,
And the rain and the lightning our playmates. The storm
Will carry us airborne, as dry winds do dust,
To the houses where they, bright and warm,
Shall provide what we seek. Then our lust
Will be sated and we will be fed
And their children next morning will lie in bed,
dead.'