in the islands north on a crescent of day i took a long road that wound where they stayed, through the winded leaves that slept on their stakes on a break in the rain. on the way stood a door clear and tall as the trees, a great golden sail that loomed in the halls and it breathed, and it walked and it shimmered and spoke to me. like some far away thing that watches all the time and lives on in a stream.
carillons a musique, they made a road that winds south at eastsound.
ive heard stories about the key that lies in the center just off the beach.
but unlike the trees you know time never sleeps, so as the sail died i stalked through it and knew it was mine. because those words that still stand, though dead others who died, those words were a mans and the end of the night.