My gilded light shines down over the fields
Fenced in by blackened shrubs
And trees that reach the sky
It is her harvest.
Come, now, to cull and collect
Whack the wheat and break off the bracken
Pick up the pieces of plant
And follow me down to the fields.
Rapeseed is glowing yellow there
Burnt amber shades the trees
It’s getting colder and darker now
But light still shines at 13.
She reaps the reward of my work.
Moss covered branches
Shade the dappled lanes
Flitting through the trembling leaves
Glimmering lights dart.
The hour has reached 15 now
And the lights are growing tired
Still they dapple the lanes
But in smaller bunches.
Can lights grow weary?
It appears so;
The leaves are moving less and less
And a chill wraps itself around my shoulders.
No more do the glimmers
Tangle themselves in my hair and the flowers
They have stopped their movements.
20 hours now.
Those old lights have disappeared.
New ones are coming.
They light the dark expanse
The abyss brightens.
Twinkling in their dull abode
They brighten the sky
And reflect in my tired eyes.
I feel the lights take away my glow
For a hundred years I will sleep
(or at least it will feel that way)
And flora and fauna shall sleep with me.
They become drowsy
Without me there to warm their hides
My sister comes to care for them
Her crimson hair will shade them
And prepare them for the cold.
She will direct them to the proper burrows
And they will sleep, too.
She comes to take my crown.
This is my last day here.
I don’t want to see myself fade
But I must watch, must linger until my final day.
My sleep is upon me.
The hour is 12 again.
She is here.