purple-blue and prosy, among the withes and hammering the stone arch with the hilt of sword.
Ringing.
The sun raced to die and the moon, encauled, slipped the knot and laced the night.
Lone, lone, long wandering -- what is it that we wish? A secret throne, a polished stone to hold
the size of heaven's heart.
A knowing, gnosis or brother could speak its mystery.