A Night of My Childhood

Through dust I write

Praises to the act of aging,

Night 

         extending.

(On

On

On, she whirls

On)

It is dusted sight

Through which I write;

They say love clouds oneself.

(On

On

On, she whirls

On)

Night as black

As the ink on the pages

That dissolve into tired minds,

As bright as its white

It snares with.

We know the dusted nights.

We know the aged flights

Of the morning

Which we 

Always 

Repeat.

(On

On

On, we whirl

On)