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A crimson moon hung
Shaped by the northwind, a forceful ember blew towards them
As if Autumn had sunk below the earth to gift the child,
A flame swallowed the man

So, the ravens had told her
Yet, she knew of his departure
A cast of the rod, or a sharp strike of the pole
A man knows no bounds, lest he is not in the shadow of the sun
For he will go off to chase an impossible stag

There was a chalice full to the brim
And here, it lay empty

There was an axe that rested by the great pine
And here, it lay in two

A rise to the surface
A caress to the chasm
A mark of the elves
A fire for St. Elm

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