After the denouement of day,

the mist comes to blanket the ferns.

Twining roots rot after spinning in turns,

in an endless dance of life and decay. 

But the mist, she hums a gentle lullaby.

Greeting the night, she bathes in aqueous moonlight,

and her fragile body begins to take shape,

from the plentiful dewdrops of night. 

She steps on the earth for the first time,

and wriggles her toes in the mulch.

A gentle smile swirls on her face,

and a translucent dress clings to her figure.

Being of the night, are you not afraid?

Your body is ephemeral, one with cyclical nature.

Forgotten each scorching morning,

but born again under the placid, pale stars. 

In this endless, bittersweet waltz, 

you are destined to dissipate,

but yet, you are happy. 

What a pure creature you are. 

Humans know not what they miss,

cocooned in their blankets, locked in their homes. 

But us kindred spirits, we play under the fickle moon, 

until the cruel sun makes us vapor quite too soon.

The delicate beauty of the night cannot always last forever. 

But in this moment she, my love, is alive and sparkling,

dancing on the dewdrops and flying with the owls, 

her steps illuminated by my gentle, cool light.