Cold winter nights cover the poet's windows with blankets of starry lights
Yet the poet will not sleep
He never sleeps but writes
His soul has much to say
He was made that way.
Haunting and beautiful his silver pen sings like a wing-song through the tall trees of Lebanon each word a note
coming together in harmony, and to rise and to drift across starry skies and deep seas, and finally into the listening heart of one like me, in echoes of musical laughter and silver bell like accents of a strange tongue of which my soul strains to understand.
And I hear the faint ringing of church bells, and I hear the gentle swish of feathered quills brushing across old scrolls like into the sound of children making angels in the snow.
The odor of coffee and sigarettes and roses blend together beneath his song in a tune of their own making.
Love composing music?
The music drifts back to the poet in little blue dreams and wisps of smokey laughter until the sleepy silence of the poet himself awakens Mozart.
The lone specter cups a beautiful pale hand to his soul and listens for the notes to come again but hears only the quietness of his own creations through deaf ears.