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What is the time? Asked Fiona,
A no-time is here,
And it goes away quicker than the butterfly’s wings,
As her cloak of stars winds its magic embrace
Around our tiny world of chaos…
Oh, and men.
Such stillness, the stars are screaming their silence,
With their flickering lights of crashing carbon,
The moon glides out from her hiding place
And whispers secrets to the earth below.
It is a time of dark serenity,
The waters of the river,
The winds and the poplar trees;
They dance to the sky,
A mystical waltz.
Man’s reign attempts to resurface,
To control this, the dark mistress,
But her cloak drowns all their feeble lamps
And harmony prevails, and peace prevails.
Still the dance goes on, still the drum-beat-drum-beat,
Of the eternal rhythm seep their way into
Our hearts and wrap us in blankets of slumber,
Her world – not ours – is at rest.
Then, so long after yet so soon, the cockerel sounds like a trumpet,
And Night’s nephew lets fly a ray of first light,
To stun and refresh the bleary earth in radiant dawn;
And so we return to our puppet thrones
Seemingly above all else, yet so below
The whispers of the night that have just left us
Until we fall asleep.
Until we fall asleep, goodnight.