[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]
We gaze through eyes bright with candlelight,
across moorlands of memory, toward the departed sun
and into profound depths of shadow-remembrance:
delving, delving - yet those riches are lost to time.
We could not hold forever to the fair visions
which flickered lively upon these walls
in daylight-dreamings, in patterns manifold,
dancing to a symphony now fading away.
Behold we now, from a quiet distance,
the world turning slowly, wick smouldering,
wax melting thick on the table, mounding up in silent waves
like the empty heath-hills stretching out beyond sight.
which flickered lively upon these walls
in daylight-dreamings, in patterns manifold,
dancing to a symphony now fading away.
Behold we now, from a quiet distance,
the world turning slowly, wick smouldering,
wax melting thick on the table, mounding up in silent waves
like the empty heath-hills stretching out beyond sight.
Shadows remain in corners; yet the sun of tomorrow
promises a wide expanse of new-blooming heather,
as now the moon rises fair and bright, the wind serene
under the stars, under the oaks, under the eaves of the house.
promises a wide expanse of new-blooming heather,
as now the moon rises fair and bright, the wind serene
under the stars, under the oaks, under the eaves of the house.
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