Where moments draught beside the rows,
Their centers drifting as clouds, like snows
Trembling in respective skins, both South
And North, where there are centers too.
There is not such in Medias.

For somewhere in the breath of Now,
The Past and Future seem as windows
Bringing light and distance to places they were not before
To taste the stars at the death of the day.

By night Bloodseeker Arnon Slant becomes reminded,
Of steps which sneeze, uncured with rest
Blood and time no less,
Though beasts and Men all long for more.
Not unlike himself.

Its so, he thought:
If one cannot go forth or nor back
Sit by, alone, the Shore
Where a dozen wraths can pass, you buy
A dozen favors since.
In seeking out dead Medias.
Or fleeing from its maw.
Like him.

So Run before the world turns black.
Past dreaming sands and golden waves
Staffed high with honeyed isles
Just run and swim and fly and die
Before your change for good,
No longer who you were.

Steal a blade to kill hours
Before the moment's gone:
Draught beside the rows
At Medias.
Where men forget the dawn.