A single breeze bypasses through leaves,
As I tally the stars that do settle above;
Leaning back in my marvel, an echo grieves,
Tis a bird of prey dubbed in sweet octave;
No matter of gender, as was hidden by sheaves,
For which type of sweetness would imitate dove;
Soundless throughout day, strident at day's eve,
This lonely bird of prey, cries out the sweetest love;
As deserted as I, the cry conducts dear weaves,
And calls on a lover, bearing branch of olive;
As do I, the prey waits its echo to be received,
My only night company hushes as night is pensive;
Awake tomorrow maestro, and orchestrate your song,
For they are awake in the day, and bray no more nightlong.
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