The night, playful, rolls in the sky, kissed by all those bright and silver lights, and she lets it speak to her--should she split her heart to find the music? Perhaps she shouldn't, but she can't help it: the words fly away from her, and her blood flows and sings within her heart and into a poem, beating wild like a true bird. And she keeps it, that scarlet lark inside--secret still, its song reserved for one ear, meant for one alone.