I seek someone, but who is she? Or rather, who is She? In the faces that go by, not a one -- only inklings. Then other times, when my heart and my eyes are clear, I stop, to dream unholy dreams. And in such a dream my lover speaks to me: she makes the wind to be her voice. Her eyes, like stars in the night sky, her hair a black moonlight that brushes my cheeks. For she is that sky, that pale and somber moon. I call out to her in yearning pleas and through my open door she comes.