Only where the cliffs do battle with the raging tides,
Does the ocean scatter; Foaming white with sigh.
Only when the moon is ambitious enough to goad,
Are we gifted with nasma; To night-sky sun be sewed.
The coldest days of winter come right after the fall,
Everything a cosmic jest, the single traps the all.
And so it is with prayer.
Only through awe and fear,
Can we squeeze sacred starlight,
From out between our ears.