There comes the Arcatu on the first of a snow,
the Orb of Night meets the Immortal Fowl.
As the Hiemal Cold enters, walked in by December,
Sacred spirit animals of the snow shrine
make place for the words to come in life.
In the wind brittle as a sharp knife
those seven spirits continuously chime:
In this night, deemed the darkest,
deemed the coldest, the longest,
I see what I have been given,
I know what has been shown,
at the dawn of this day
the Tree ascends up ahead of our way,
and the Lord Amedhya rises and becomes today,
the made being to live for me,
to sail the traversing sea.
I accept it, endlessly grateful
to carry it with me into the forever.
Two waters I give to the Moon
in imaginary palace,
a mausoleum mansion to endlessly wonder
for their fruits are
the Decadence and Deception.
I give them
to walk under a Orb of Night one day a month
one as a shadow, a black and deaf rat,
another as a ghost, a color changing cat,
hand in hand together to stare
at gracious silver floating silent
across the sky, and fascinated to long
but never to know each other.
Third water I give to an Immortal Fowl,
a warlike type of a thing, into
the modest stone nobody notices
entwined with the bounded companion
because Their fruit is a Malice.
I give to them
to rise at this day only once a year
into a chamber of mirrors to be reminded
and to greet to a given one who caters on
infinite dejection as their only friend.
Fourth, of the earth standing static and cold,
I fulfill their burning wish
reason which are untold
to inbound within a part of a living god,
because what is a human but not as a part
and I split their mind, to be truly apart,
because their fruit is a Prestige.
I give them to obey and serve but
never shall rise, never shall descend,
forever to hold that cup and pray.
For all their favors I order their gift of life
into the Arcatu to pour, to dwell, to twirl,
never to explain, stop or rest,
never to regret, respire or resent,
spending force unwise in a struggle and deceit
with blind eyes closed in a nightmarish fever,
to howl what Arcatu speaks, written weaver,
and quickly come to terms on their own.
Of indefinite importance is that magnificence,
inside of the Time be as a pounding life,
a never ignited flame, a desire,
they conspire to that pyre,
assumed by a holy fire.
So it shall be. I banish these parts from me
and make place for future of things to shine
into an existence of the created being.