When stars alight in radiant delight,
and Lady Moon casts down her lovely gaze-
as people all throughout the quiet night
drift off into the grasp of Slumber's haze-
upon the land a lazy mist arrives,
a shadowed, swirling blanket in the dark.
And in this mist a figure will arise,
and prowl the streets in search of his new mark.
I lie in bed, a window open wide
in hopes of somnolence bequeathed to me,
when misted figure slowly crept inside,
let fly his darkened dagger and then flee.

Intimate with this nightly drama;
I am a victim of insomnia.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Sarapin, in the year 762 AF.