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.