I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day. — Vincent Van Gogh The day, water, sun, moon, night — I do not have to purchase these things with money. — Plautus 3 A.M. Eyes closed, Mind open, Magic starts. The Poet versifies, Creates, beautifies. In this instant, When the divine spark Ignites the soul, Shaping the Verb And moulding meanings, The invisible clay waxes merry, Ready to expand Under the pen’s flow. Night flirts with the heart, Engrossed in the power, Radiance and ecstasy Of ever-changing thoughts. Heavy eyelids fight slumber— Ideas erupt lava-like, Surprising the tranquil sounds Of the Spirit trapped in this fantasy. The trembling hand whispers Tender secrets to the sheet’s white space, Vibrating to the disguised moonlight. At last, the poet has found repose. Slowly aching for the comfort of his bed, He must still buy some time, Dissect a few more lines For the sake of his art, His true passion, his sleepless companion. Consciousness is still calling, Fervently possessing the arm, Demanding the end of the piece. The dripping pool of endless words Rocks the lulled mind of the poet. Inside, faith resides like a rock, Unshakable and unbreakable. The last sentence, the last instant, Everything unites for the final brush Of pen against paper, When skin shivers one more time. Feverishly aware of his masterpiece, The poet smiles and wonders if infinity Will remember him among the stars. Yet, sleep calls and sings in his ear. For he must rest his eyes and mind Until tomorrow’s echoing hymn. And it is 3 a.m. ©2009 Cendrine Marrouat