Forgotten are our pleas to temper the dawn So that even as the night lays silent there are echoes, a rhythmic thrum of time Carried forth are the quiet souls of man from the ebbing shores born of passing moments toward the twilight of the flickering flame. And land ye yet to those moors of shadow, that evanescence of the living breath, take heart! For on its banks grow the roots of the Bodhi whose branches bore the seeds for the Garden, and its leaves are as shelter for the Spark. Thus we bear the gaze of the boatman, the cloak'd Moirai who guides the clocks, as it is best to take the lilting petals upon the tongue and savor.