Her voice is in the night. And it comes in many ways.

There is the call of love lost, of love never known, and of love forgotten. Each is more heart rending than the last. There is the cry of those left behind. These she has pity on, gently consoling in her cold embrace. For she is not of the happy world, the world of lights. No, rather she is within shadow - lurking where danger lies in wait, carousing in the drunken darkness, prowling where real life begins and the shell of mock-beatitude fades.

She is the enemy of ignorance.

For only in the dark, with no eyes to see, is her beauty truly unveiled. She comes slightly, as a breeze, a whole body caress, with no words but the unspoken wind. Her touch is deep, in that it goes beyond flesh, beyond description.... a nameless ecstasy, finite and infinite.

She is the companion of loneliness.

The happy world dances around her, the world of lights acknowledges her with its defiance. These are not for her. For her the solitary wonder, the gaze of longing, the restless spirit. For her the soul encased in flesh, and, knowing this, yet dares to strive towards her chilling beauty. For endless fire burns cold in a vacuum, and motion is illusion to the infinite. Yet these serve as the signposts to her vast beauty.

She is the silence of shadows.

Each star is her heart, burning and shedding light across infinity. Yet, each star beckons to us, reminding us of how small and large we are simultaneously. Each star is the center of infinity, by its own sovereign right. Every one part of the whole which encompasses her vast domain, for we reside within her - the living sky.

She is the cacophony of a whisper.

Hers is the voice of inspiration, the whispered nudge which guides us at times to unique discoveries, chances taken and deeds of spontaneity. Hers is the voice of fire, that which tears through us in quiet times with all consuming passion. Hers is the beat of the heart, the rushing of blood and the song of spirit raised in mindless ululation to that which is greater than what we know.

She is the symphony of being.

We are but movements of her essence. Intertwining melodies drifting within an endless chorale. She is the mad conductor, meshing the music of our lives into sounds of grandeur. For none know when the strain of a dirge shall become an ecstatic crescendo, or a requiem the song of a Phoenix. Or the opposite. For she knows the greatest beauty can oftentimes be found in sorrow. The heart sings when it bleeds.

She is the mutability of constants.

Ever fluid, she dances. Defying comprehension. Her masques are legion, her illusions many. For that is the art of her dance. To entwine us all in our respective visions. To dare us to depart from the world of lights, to live our feelings, to express our hearts. Each vision adds colour to her body, the panorama of existence we call Life.

She is the dream of awareness, and the sleep of waking. The rainbow floating gracefully, hovering gently within the night. The light of the dark, illumining the depth of shade. The voice which is not heard, the words not spoken, only felt.

She is that which is.

The resonant beauty inherent in all things.