Quiet wind, and a sleepy leave rustly,
grasses weave, and tangle in dance.
Quiet wind?
O' symphony of the midnight,
the apex of the moon.

Crushing boots, with trails in the sea,
stop suddenly in the midst of stars,
to gaze at pinholes of the sky.
O' conductor lord, twich your eye,
the music must go on!

Sleepping light, you're the orator of the night
the dance has ended, and failling,
Finished waltz?
O' magister of the shadow, flick your wrist,
the spears must weave in Song!

Whipered order, travel lightly from the lord,
string instruments, and test the drums,
Music once again?
O' creator of the orchastra, continue your performance,
the sun is long in coming!

Quiet wind? No, a pause in the act,
a shift in the corperal loom,
Music of the Dance.
O' symphony of midnight,
the dance of shadow,
the dance of moons,
the dance of the night,
continues on till dawn...