When someone walks the edge of very little,
In ultimate pursuit of even less,
When blues unswiftly dim in tender violet,
With the horizon hid in misty aisles,
Before descending in the breath of waves,
It seems so easy to give up to lisps,

To soften gazes, make the silence sing
From lanterns first until the morning breeze,
And everything is possible in lightness
Of evening wish, so precious in its' fineness.
On routes all intertwined, we have to lead
And, as the soul speaks, to plant the seeds,

To walk all walks in following the Craft,
Wherever road takes, on land and overseas.
We are the sorcerers, with compasses and spells,
Confronting the potential of else,
As moments flow, and time is only leased
For trials and perfections of the Art.

August 2024