As We Cross  The Mountain,  We  Can Walk 
 Only At Night.  Long  Ago, Someone  Here 
 Must'Ve  Angered The Sun,  And Today  It 
 Still Burns Us Strangely.  But  With The 
 Sunset  The Air Comes  Raining Back Down 
 And Gets  Thick  Enough  To  Breathe. It 
 Carries  With  It Smells From  Far Away, 
 Colourful Sparks For The Imagination,  A 
 Sharp Contrast  For The  Stale  Black Of 
 The Night.                               
 The Others  Think I'M Young, They  Don'T 
 Take   Me  Seriously  And  I  Fear  They 
 Snicker  A  Bit.  You  Usually  Get  Old 
 Before  You Learn  The  Trade Enough  To 
 Take  Other People. But  I  Do Lead Them 
 Safely     Forward,     Every     Night. 
 However,  Currently  There  Seems To  Be 
 Something  Going On Ahead. Those  Around 
 The  Corner   Have  Stopped,   Shouting, 
 My Greatest Treasure, The                
 Book of stars,   Is   A  Combined   Map, 
 Calendar  And Timepiece As  Long As  You 
 Know  What Year It  Is.  Every Page Is A 
 Grid  Of  Nine Starfields,  Hand  Drawn, 
 Below Which Are  Written Coordinates  In 
 Both  Space  And Time. A  Lot  Of  It Is 
 Applicable  On  Earth,  But  Not All. It 
 Hints  Of  Other  Places  -  Some  Stars 
 Reordered,   Some  Names  I  Have  Never 
 Heard.   Sometimes    The   Dates    Are 
 Those Pages  Are Exactly What I Scramble 
 For  Right  Now. I'Ve Stopped Breathing. 
 I Sling Open  The Book  Of Stars  A  Bit 
 Too Quick, Spilling All  My Notes On The 
 Ground. One  Lands On  My  Foot, It Is A 
 Drawing  Of  A  Muscle cow, But  I Could 
 Care Less Right Now.                     
 For It Seems  Like There'S A New Moon In 
 The Sky.