In the wee hour of three in the morning ~ when the journeying sandman is crossing a bridge constructed with God's strong spiritual support for broken dreams, there's a society of the eve writing under the comfort of the autumn moon so benevolent with her light, she beams blue-gray on their pages. In pre-dawn thoughts of nostalgic wandering in a poet's mind, in the mistiness a past love materializes in the moonlit mirror, with stars of eternity in his eyes, memorable summertide fever pitch of passions salted kisses on the night beach of our long ago, as the sand beneath me disappears I long to speak with him of our yesterdays, yet, I know so well ~ of romance lost in the weeping vasty cosmos as he fades away with my aging thoughts, I, a member of the society of the eve, of bards' visionary souls ascending so high, and bursting into immortality in shooting stars ~