The way is to climb. The way is to lie still. And let the moon do. Its work on your body. . And then to rise. Forests and oceans of lives. And through the way.
The hunter's star. Burns brighter than all. Of the suns of the firmament. As through the sky he raged. With his hook and blade. And the world unmade. .
When the rooks were laid in the piles. By the sides of the road. Crashing into the aerials. Tangled in the laundry lines. . And gathered in a field. They were burned in a feathering pyre.
From the wreck of the ark. To the fading day of our star. The light races, the light drags. The moon rises, the moon sags. Over the rolling waves. And your hand's on the balcony.
My blistered feet turn bloody. So I take to the air. And I am everywhere, I am starlight. Oh, I am moonlight. . Over burning fields and bodies. I stay close to the ground.
I was a cloud. I was a cloud looking down. Your frantic waving. Did not provoke feeling. But this little one. . Steady your wings now, sparrow. I remembered him.
When you were a child, you were a tomboy. And your mother laughed at the serious way. That you looked at her. And from your window at night. There were the star's little fires.
You were not the first to arrive. Will not be the last to survive. The pigs and the oxen we bound to the wheel. Turn it off, turn it off. . You are not the last of this house.