The Bell Toll

Run, oh Child of the Moon;

Tarry fast away here, past

The mountain as the mast,

And be flown, at last, by noon.

So long have thee sought your sky,

The place flown like the dune,

Lo, it has past and found it dry,

So leave it, nigh, by noon.

Forgotten, I swear, you shall not be,

As temples stand witness to their rune,

Think not again to leave and flee,

But make haste. It flies at noon.