Midnight's velvet curtain obscures the ancient stage
Avon's murky waters still lay in silent wait
Slowly actors gather for their long-awaited wage
Stratford's dusty pages their hollow yearnings sate
The moon's orb rises higher, commands the star-crossed sky
Lumens flooding Avon, its secrets hidden still
The curtain slowly lifting, the stage's hemlock dry
Players take their places, the playwright grasps his quill
The pulsing night's blood quickens, the scenes to pages flow
Breezes coyly shifting, plays ending far from sewn
What tragedy lay waiting, no earthly spirits know
Stage borne into reality, its martyrs still unknown
The audience is fading, far stars now growing bright
And we are now the playwright, the ink our mystic night
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