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.