• A ghost steps through the treetops as the wind blows,
    Rustling sounds that only a hunter could sense,
    Sounds so brief and fleeting, but the huntsman knows,
    That his prey is standing near, fearful and tense.
    Bristling noises through the forest, waking not a man,
    The hunter waits in shadows for the time to strike,
    A fluttering against the leaves and the spirit ran!
    Only to find his seeker: so different, yet alike.
    The phantom flies into the air, and hides away in trees,
    But alas, he’s been seen, he’s running out of time,
    His steps so soft and fleeting, like a summer’s breeze,
    He thinks that he is safe from harm, until he hears a chime.
    The hunter, the sun, shoots an arrow through his heart,
    And the specter of night is dead, so that the day may start.