It is Harmattan; not without, But within me is the cold. Youth and merry fill the air about; It is I that has grown old. Hawks gracing the clumsy skies, Sailing, building without rest. Sauntering down hollow aisles, Seeking a stolen nest. There is silence below the stars; Stars bright enough to burn. Still nursing these scars Like a nestling nun. I am a beggaring gloom; Counting my days in twos. I see now a full moon; A gleam of hope lain loose. It is harmattan; not without; And within she is all. Dusty leaves still burning out; It is Harmattan within after all.