Dew dots the folicles of the earth,
raised in static praise of what came and left,
what dreams did come.
Blades drank down to dirt and marrow,
parched and harrowed, juandiced in the light of Ra.
But he has gone the way of Tiamat.
Now may stray tears enter the cyclical fray;
the dividing line, terminus heralding the coming of the day.
A vintage season, come to stay and greave for the end of an age.