The horizon from the highest hill is the useless
Edge Of The World when you don’t travel.
You meet people who come by far,
So they must be heroes; so I believe you’re a Rider
Passing to the Sun’s Door…though you tell me,
You once knew so cold a land the clouds froze
And fell from the sky, and the People
Wore heavy skins.
Still, I look at your hands
Warm and dark with the candle,
And can barely imagine
What I’d think their color by Dragon’s Fire,
Leave alone the morning sun.
Then you turn in our shadows as if to say,
You’ve begun your liking of me,
So tonight you’ll stay.