The Archivist are not people you could easily see,
  They glide through the Grass like snakes, slowly and stealthily,
They trade with others secretly.

When the Sun goes crooked,
And all is still,
The Archivists come out and cross the Hill.

The Archivist walks past me and slips a piece of paper in my hand,
I slowly wait, then open the piece of contraband.
It is too high a  price to pay for Thy own loss.

I hold it against my chest and breathe in the smell,
The scent of the sand and the rocks, I breathe,
It came from the Hill and my Lover's own hand.

The Sun goes straight and Night turns into Day,
I look at the Paper again and smile at the words before me,
These are the Archivists who's trading comes with a fee.