What stirs, you phantom, in the dead of the night?
When the wonderous winter has yet to set
When the lackadaisical summer still sweetens the breath
When the hard ache test of wills cools venom of spite.
What shakes, you fool, at a 3 am gait?
When the world seems asleep but is really awake
When the moment glides by until the early morn light
Off to work with no sleep for the hour’s its height
Maybe a debate, or a harassing disease
Pierce through the dribble and sputum believe
We shine through the dark corners in the dead night’s dark air
And breathe in a new world with clear foresight aware
So off with the robes of treachery’s delight
The morning we shout that everything will be alright