In the dark of day 
There comes a cold wind 
Rustling through shattered leaves. 

The depth of this blank, useless time 
Sharply contrasts with the reality 
That exists in the mind of the actor 
On his private stage. 

Memory seeps from hidden recesses 
Twisting and shaping the performance 
Giving the player emotions from within 
But not always controllable memories 
They do get away and carry beyond. 

So in this darkness 
The cold wind in the day 
Blowing and scattering the dead tree matter 
A lone player stands on an isolated stage 
Playing his part with repressed memory 
Surfacing in front of a passing audience.