Winter tide,
Our fireside tales have all been told,
The great log’s ashes
Have long gone cold,
You, once so vibrant,
Froze under a spell,
No sap runs now,
For your annual wassail
As if a lamp lit cat,
The moon climbs through your knot-finger branches,
So fridged,
Even your shivering leaves have left you
The Sunrise – just a moment earlier
Tomorrow,
Lamp moon, float off,
With all old aeon’s sorrows
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