I wonder why we are warm-blooded,
And yet men are to one another stone-cold.
The sun’s light hides so many things:
In the depths of wells, beings with wings,
And thoughts we fear exist.
They come and disappear like the mist.

With the appearance of the moon,
The fur extends beyond the skin.
Farther it stretches into a big beard.
Faces torn, strange, and very bold—
The tricks Nature plays on men,
Like Count Dracula in his den,
And all fiery and fearful beings,
Which I solemnly call ‘just things.”

Walk not alone in a forest
By a full moon’s light.
Dreadful creatures crawl about,
Seeking what gives them delight;
No conscience, but a real taste
For the warm blood on the breast.

And when I had A little conversation
About what gives her special interest,
I got a huge shocker,
And I was left to wonder…

“Life is not always cold,”
Afterthought, I replied.
“Don’t you see how I look?
I am a fellow vampire too.
I have long ears like an elf,
Lips, eye colors, all of a wolf!”
Trying to fend off signs of fear,
Neither of us ever saw the other’s face.
And for those who call out like an umpire,
A quick terror at such a name: vampire.