I am tired of being vigilant. When darkness comes, let me open the gates of the walled city, and let you in to wander the streets laid in river stone and pearl beneath an artificial sky woven from the weathered lines of your poems, the hush song of dark hens in their nests, the thread-worn wings of fire and lightning. I will break all the dams that surround this place, that hold back what remains of snow and sorrow, whatever the mountain has failed to keep in its secret vaults, in its high places. I will let loose the moon from her moorings, and give all the stars back to the toothless night. I have grown old in my waiting, like a snail I have carried my armored world with me, a labyrinth of names turned upon a lathe of song.