Walking through the night,
Listening to symphonies played by moonlight.
Eyes tightly closed, // sleeves rolled against skin,
yet vision remains clear;
Like an artist's light flickering in darkness,
Appearing then fading away —
In this vast wild world,
Has anyone truly never heard music's voice?

Never spoken its name,
Nor painted its form,
Nor written its song,
Nor imagined its grace.
Never witnessed its power unfold // before their eyes,
And the endless peace.
For artists must let art dwell
Within art's sacred appearance.

Amidst meaningless landscapes —
And through literature's golden hours,
The pupil reflects another searching gaze,
As from a single patch // of moonlight —
Springs forth endless colors and beauty, // divine.

Now the curtain rises slowly, // the drama unfolds,
With attentive stillness;
Fresh flowers lie scattered across plates,
While hands clutch desperate at napkins,
Against black tablecloth,
White linen cuts through shades of pink.
Thus suffering transforms into sustenance,
Completing the symphony,
Wrapped in quiet observation —

From the audience's seat,
imagining streetlights' glow within shadows' shrink.