No-one remained who remembered the ritual.
No one doubted the day coming.
We opened up the great library,
Found parchment bound in leather,
Bird’s wing-lettered in a forgotten language,
On a dusty gallery, in a shaft of light.
We unearthed the cellars of the alchemists,
Found a map of a country no-one knew,
Amongst metal and glass instruments
And naked animals, bloated in jars, desiccated leaves
And cards whose figures had no faces.
There is a circle in a square, drawn on the lake shore.
White robes, others in grey.
Fresh bread and clean, cold water in stone bowls.
We wait in silence for the dawn.
No-one is certain of the ceremony,
No-one doubts, it must be on the morrow.
