"Tonight, you grow fire In your home; the hearth is warmer than It was day before, and the heat is some What hotter." Tell me, o bearer of the bard's timeless Residues, the starkness of what remains, Endures. Tell me too, o quills that ink The shores of pain, of destitute growth And gain. "Tomorrow's morrow is now past." The temple grounded, the sword sheathed, the Fill of land is for the maker's glory, and Fuel for the till. "Cull your seamstress vows, Pulverize the atoms of your being, the order Of light is now of silent gratitude." The worms of time look about and confer with The muse of the forest, the news of night; The loose ground will shift in preparation. "Did I mention the glories and Speak of the stains?" No matter now, the glory, the stain, the dim Flames from the hearth are programmed to keep Your fellowship warm.