Of means, none silent as the candle
greetings, none soft as dawn
causes, none grand as the moth
to weave moonlight each night.
Of words, make mine such steel
that I too would render
wonder from darkness.
Of means, none silent as the candle
greetings, none soft as dawn
causes, none grand as the moth
to weave moonlight each night.
Of words, make mine such steel
that I too would render
wonder from darkness.
I Could Be Wrong 