The night is young and so am I
A historian with a curious eye
I sip my beer and watch the crowd
Hoping for a spark to light my shroud
The music plays a nostalgic tune
A reminder of a distant moon
A time when heroes fought and died
And left behind their stories to confide
Then I hear her voice so clear and sweet
She asks me for a vacant seat
She holds a bag of books so fine
A sign of a cultured and brilliant mind
She looks at me with hazel eyes
And I feel a surge of butterflies
She smells of jasmine and orange bloom
A scent that stirs a long-lost memory from my room
Who is she and where is she from?
Is she the one I’ve been waiting for so long?
Or is she just a passing dream?
A fleeting glimpse of what could have been?
A Certain Point of View, Too 
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