Let there be night inside these corners
where the god of heavens tucks the sky beneath the earth
Let there be night for travelers to rest in shadows
and suck the juice from silver apple seed
Let there be night;
The world is old if you just know her from the stories
but the world inside herself is a dancer
and she dances in a purple pool
of circle blades and flying veils:
she is but a girl, her instep
carves the moon out of pearl dust;
the traveler unveils, unafraid of the blades.
Let there be night inside her silver voice
that thawed the giants from their beds of slate
Let there be night for travelers to find the beasts
that hunt in dreams, that breathe in dreams, that fly, in their dreams
Oh, let there be night;
You speak of it, the leaving, the turning away from the horizon you know,
but you must not speak, your lips shall be sealed
by blades of prairie grass sighing in the wind, by cool rain
washing your face. Leave, then. One foot in front of the other.
All journeys begin with a first step.
Let there be night for all the world to be reborn by morning
Let there be night to give an echo to the day
Let there be night to travel in a sea of stars, to steal
the fruits of heaven.
There are no heroes, just travelers.
Travelers know no real sleep, they have only their dreams.
The dreams never stop. The traveler never arrives.
[Alexandra Seidel writes poems and stories about things that are … real. Kinda. Her work can be found at places like Lackington’s, Strange Horizons, Mythic Delirium, and others. If you are so inclined you can follow Alexa on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog: http://tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com.]