It’s always lovelier to walk around at night

 It’s always lovelier to walk around at night.  

She is slightly different from her more cacophonic, harsh twin. Everything is asleep, in their beds of  cotton clouds and moonlit dew, but  

everyone is awake. 

Jackals roam the bushes and the open, winter fields, breathing in those white flowers blooming under the  eclipsing darkness, holding passers-by in their sweet-smelling dream. You go up the sloping road, with  oak and eucalyptus looming high above, ancient giants who have something to say when all mimic the  dead, and you have the peace to listen to the numbing, ice winds.  

Listen.  

Walk to the heart of the dying grass and lie underneath the stars. Look at Orion and Sagittarius, the Big  Dipper and Scorpio, they have stories to play out. The same stars we, of the same dust as our ancestors  and the greats, have the pleasure of witnessing.  

Listen to the silence.  

Everything sleeps. 

So do you, as you feel the emerald grass curling underneath your cotton hoodie, soaking you in midnight  dew.  

Tell me sweet lies.  

Tell me what you felt, when conquerors tread your skin all the way back when. When you were so erotic  and mythicized. Tell me what it was like when lovers told you and witnessed you and met under your  light. My silver crescent, tell me of the time they conquered the stars in the name of man. When they set  foot and shattered your skin as you weren’t the first affection of midnight lovers.  

Of a time they believed you were divine.