Separated, all in shade,
Shadows behind mirror frames
Wait and watch the world as barred—
Life beneath a night unstarred.
Voice of beauty, song of pain,
Soundless to the ears of blame.
Trapped beneath the earthen bar:
A secret dream of life unscarred.
But days are all midnights to be.
Beneath the Opera Populaire are
Corridors devoid of air,
And motes of darkness lying deep where
Monstrous things are prone to sleep.
There are secrets buried there,
Homeless in the Phantom lair.
While over waters, falsely strong,
There floats a gleaming, haunting song:
The Opera Ghost singing to me.
His haunted face they never see,
But gossip of in frightful glee.
Overhead: the stage director,
Doomed Buquet, the storyteller.
Gather backstage; hear him gloat:
He's caught a glimpse of Erik's cloak!
A fairy-tale allowed no rest—
But fear will come with manifest
And just as quickly leave.
In youth, I needn't fill my head
With stories of the nameless dead.
Safe and sheltered ballerina in the nameless Angel's flight
Every night I heard the Angel's
Voice that came from every angle.
All there was for me was basking in the notes his spirit writes:
The wondrous music of the night.
I wish to have kept beholder's eye.