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.