The midnight stranger
When I was 13, I wrote a poem called the Midnight Stranger:
The hour is 12, the world is still,
all is a asleep, all but one.
An unknown damsel swiftly glides down the hill,
O so beautiful, and O so young.
Who is she? And why has she come?
She glides in the midnight sun.
Birds sing, drums sound
at the sight of her lady and her gown of night.