Terpsichore's on tree-tops
swaying gently
in moonlight.
She reins in the rough arc
of nascent limbs,
light as plucked feathers
in a gale.
The forest is drunk
with insentient song.
Ghosts of melodies
haunt your ear,
late traveler.
Unsettled by life's absence,
it's not your hollow breast...
Some youthful egress?
Give it a name.
Still bewilderment
keeps you wakeful
'til pale moon's
panned away
by morn's gold.
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