Rising up, floating into the night,
radiant stars riding on light.
Like paper scraps sparking fire,
voices tangled in a drunken choir,
wild as leaves scattered by the gale,
ebbing from darkness, parchment pale.
Fluttering, rising, up with desire,
smoky waves, streamers, ruddy high-flyers,
ghosts, emperors, rustic gypsies, goths,
old ladies, true lovers, gold spangled moths,
flame shoulders, wood tigers, frosted hawks,
confused, uncertain, crescents and fox.
Rustling armies rising up from the ground,
fanning out like a motley cloud,
ascending the willows, the alders and pines,
dancing skywards, forever divine.
No longer resigned to their lowly doom,
here come the moths who will devour the moon.
The Purple Hermit 