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.