Ten thousand one wings in the lion’s ring,
Holy and houndish in pursuit from mountain;
Trembling are the shadows of the dogdayed age,
Widowed from the Summerland, adieu.
These tilted and lonely hands, are the braids,
Woven into the fabric of the bay leaf and clary;
The spice and bite bodies cringe to bathe,
Feel the sting of time moving on without them.
Wheel in motion, that never sets,
Nuada grows weary hanging his golden net.
The wolves grow tired, and bow their howling heads,
A terrible fashioning, my unmercy of proceeding.
On and on, ten thousand one, ten thousand
Steps from the mountain. All
Garner their words, garner their songs,
Count the scars and lines traced along their skins.
Wherein did we fall, wherein did we fail?
The tied string to inception, that leads the way back?
Where waves and earth clacks, and crumbling
Prevails, ten thousand times, we long forget.
The trees are worn, she Night, she wonders of home;
The hour before birth came, and its reckoning.
