The Voice, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The VoiceThe Voice, Summer Night, Edvard Munch (1896)

The Voice

Your voice calls to me on this summer night
I hear you but you are out of my sight
Lost, not knowing what direction to go
Now wondering if I will ever know

Like a longing love bird sing out to me
Hide not your body behind any tree
If you are real your song will not stop
And I will search for you until I drop

As if an owl I will take rapid flight
With the thrilling full moon as my search light
I’d ride the soft summer wind ’til you’re found
In but a moment I’d be on the ground

You immediately I shall embrace
Falling gently to a heavenly place
Of our lovers’ bed of deep silky moss
On your heart my initials I’ll emboss