Through the half remembered trees
Shadowed blue and underfoot
Her heralds call the passing hours
And guard the door of sleep
When first she stirs the stars shine cold
Reflected in the midnight dew
Collected by the ancient craft
The mirrors of the hills
The paths cut deep by countless years
That spiral to the summit stones
Await again the dancing feet
Of those who passed before
As she ascends they gather light
The fallen stars of heaven’s host
To film brimful the shining bowl
And cast it eastward from the stones
So dawn may come once more
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