Soul (006 of 365) The soul is the night, as the night is beautiful, And he wears it in black. The night is grace, the simple heron, Who flies and wanders and kisses the wind. The night is the soul, and the soul, the soul, It is the golden dream of vain poetry; And it's poetry the crying that calms, How does the crane sink feel? The soul is the heron; the heron is the dream, The golden dream of life that shuts up; The soul is life, the love I propose From the bottom of the crib where life wraps me up. The soul is the dream, the dream is the day, And the day is the moon, which the night comforts. And the moon is the one that, in the cold night, Steals his magic, brings him the dawn. The moon is the moon, the moon, the moon, Who shines the tide, who howls The wolf, the night he floats And shines, and burns, and hangs in the air. It is the soul, at last, the lost life In the white pages that hide the trauma To have, between the dream, the moon and life, The night, the crane, the wind and the soul.