The heavens fall in silent grace,
where stars and horizon interlace.
A frozen breath upon the land,
we open arms to night's command.

Darkness gathers, cold and deep,
as waking worlds drift into sleep.
No border holds the sky above—
only the black, and winter's love.

We welcome what the light denies:
the endless dark, the watching skies.
Horizon gone, the stars descend,
and night and earth, as one, ascend.

Wherefore call we grasses blades?  
They are elder of the name  
of things of earth for wreckage made,  
and they that call them for their bane.  

The grasses care not for the word  
or for causes of their ails, 
but stand erect as best they can  
against the day the blades shall fail  

and quiet once again shall come  
to the places long they lived.  
They'll lift their slender arms above  
with never a thought to us to give.