But still, no one is to whisper under the hushed night. A cold, eerie night secrete behind trees that cover the neighborhood of pure emptiness.

                As it hides, the wind blows the leaves of the maple trees.

    Cheeks nearly frostbitten from the frostbitten temperatures that fly throughout the town.

            The jabber is low, murmurs of the animals take place.

    The people of the nearly morose town, silent, lit up, illuminated by the moon and stars.

                 No one is to make a sound under hushed stars.

    Not even the children, wished and hoped under lifeless, yet bright stars. Not the slightest              noise sounded, other than the creatures, they sounded... From stone to stone, drip to drop.

                   There are only dead noises, and dead lights.

            The lakes, full of their noises of rippling tides, fish slapping their tails against stones.

                        And still no one is to sound under hushed stars.

        The town, people putting their cold finger tips to their lips, shushing the wild.
               But still, no one is to whisper under the hushed night, for thy hushed night may never respond.