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.