At 12:43

The moon turns her head

To see her reflection

In every drop of rain.

Predawn is cruel,

Predawn is the moment

Of which nobody speaks,

For the darkness envelops

Every spark of light,

Every inkling of hope.

Where am I going?

No candles flicker

To mark my path,

Nobody is skipping

Down the streets,

Nobody has risen

From their beds.

For this is the hour of sleep,

The hour of quietude and solitude,

The hour of a state of the Earth

Indiscernible from death.

The light is dim

As I enter the room,

The flickering of the candles

A contrast to the black background of the sky.

I blink slowly,

Once, twice, three times,

And as the clock strikes 1:00,

I settle down, quill in hand

And begin to write.