The night owl, in the tree, cooing softly
To the moon? To the stars? "Who? Who? You?"
Yes, night owl, it is you that I see:
Golden beak, glowing eyes, as you flew.
Oh night owl, words succinct, why do we
Try to give such a feeling imperfect words?
With a grace unmatched, you fly so free
With your solitude, you stir me, bird.
Which brings me to a matter of heart
When asked why do I try to describe
The emotion I feel when I start
To set eyes upon your person, alive.
I must end with a word on the truth of these words.
They degrade. Too much beauty for such wretched herds.
