Small prophets awaiting everywhere,
silver compass spinning in prayer.
You know it, as you experienced bring
the birdsong to us every year spring.
The foxes running the streets at night,
escorting you out of the alley, into the light.
A stranger's perfume bitter-sweet,
turning your head for our gazes to meet.
Alchemic lore is what washed you ashore,
once named Felician, but not anymore.
Truthtellers and soothsayers awaiting everywhere,
silver compass spinning in prayer.
Everlasting birdsong.
Birdsong, everlasting.