They come in Dreams, those Mournful Souls,
Within the Velvet of Night\'s Veil,
They glide through Shadows, seek the Light,
And whisper Secrets, soft and pale.
In Waking Hours, they borrow Birds,
Their Feathers tapping at the Pane,
An Urgent Call, a Ceaseless Cry,
A Plea to Enter, free from Pain.
As Masquerades, they wear the Wind,
Their Voice, a Murmur through the Leaves,
With Every Rustle, Every Bend,
A Lingering Presence, One believes.
In Visions, soft they come and go,
A Thought, a Breath, a Torn Shadow.