Silence descends with the curtain of night,
A momentary pause, a blink of the eyes,
An intake of breath, and the desert wind's bite,
As the arid landscape takes on a new guise.
Dusk is the time that the ghosts awake,
One by one the desert's memories return,
Of western heroes, their fears and heartbreaks
And wraiths dressed in white lace, whose love was spurned.
As the night progresses the phantoms dance,
They laugh and sing beneath the full moon's bright,
Their echoing song dosen't make any sense: "Sixteen candles make a lovely light."
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