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.