By Henry Stern
I wager thee a game of skill
I wager, flying higher
We scrape the midnight skies, until
You pull me from the spire
As I fall, help in your midnight
Even in the storms agray
I know you’ll comfort, hold me tight
I know well sweep the wind away
“Go far away!” I wish, I quip
Go nowhere, somewhere tough-skinned
I am the boy who lost his grip
You billow soaring west-wind
I’m cold, I’m scared, I’m tired, I’m lost
You wrap me, tell me, “Sumber”
Im fall, a spinning pierce of frost
You whisper, “heed your Mother”
The slowly rising sun at dawn
Wicks dew from bud and clover
The slowly rising boy, a faun
Wicks sweat, eeling leftover
Till frost terns dew, the darkness gone
I’ll follow you, my golden sun