It is light and it is late

On the shores of black stone

Yet the soothing refuses me

For I am tired of the tide,


I may sigh and I may wait

Upon the dust, upon the bone;

I am the enemy

That I must cast aside.


Bellow the winds and the water,

Awaiting under a pale eye

Their passenger’s singing fare;


I am the Night’s daughter

Yet how my sun is but a lie

And only this smile knows the prayer.


When the sky is hurt, only the birds sing.

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