Sleep, my son,
when all the world keeps turning,
leave the
wake, my son,
how low the candle’s burning,
please don’t
wait, my son,
for anyone’s returning:
there is time left
to rest.
Keep, my son,
your own word and its wording,
let it
steep, my son,
that thought you have been herding,
as if
sheep, my son,
are counted when converting
open eyes in-
to closed.
Stay, my son,
in peaceful states of minding,
watch and
pray, my son,
for hours of unwinding,
feel it
lay, my son,
your own head down from finding
things for your gaze
to fix.
Gray, my son,
is the evening you’re behind-ing,
hold at
bay, my son
the fussing and the whining,
you’re o-
kay, my son,
the clouds have silver lining
long before first light
under Moonlit Goodnight.