“Wolf-teeth coloured moon She lolls haggard
I rally the cup dramatise it of all the wind and snow
Who tinkled over the cupboard of the past life entertaining dust and quarrels
The hymn of Fate numerous reincarnations
You frolic crystallise for the youth that will not revel when called
Although history has already befallen dust my love is not snored”
The moon is a strange off-white off-yellow colour, a somewhat rusty shade like the teeth of wolves. She is loitering, limping along as a gaunt shape. I gently press the carvings on the cup, awakening its powers. Wind and snow materialised within it, swirling lazily. I languidly extend my ring finger and the contents of the cup draw themselves into ethereal filament and twin themselves around my extended digit. I hear a faint tinkling sound from the cupboard where I lock away my past life. It is a merry sound, fit for entertaining dust and quarrels. I hear the hymn of Fate also, sung time and time again at each reincarnation. I hear your crystalline voice whilst frolicking, chiding youth for not revelling when prompted. Now history has become naught but dust and my love has not yet hibernated.