As time, itself, now bows low before us...

Old Year, New Year, young as yet,
Memories, lest we forget,
Dreams that never may come true,
Shining brightly in the blue.
 
Time is turning, wheels they spin,
We, though weary, feet begin,
Following the old straight track,
As the clock goes turning back.
 
Ticking, tocking, timeless wheel.
Grant us chances, yet to heal,
Seeking answers in the dark,
Guided by a dimming spark.
 
Searching for the sacred code,
Down this long and lonely road,
Lost and found, and lost once more,
Endless, hunting for the door.
 
Moon above me, light my way,
As the night becomes the day,
Year before us shining bright,
Lift our hearts into the light.
 
- Poem by Sonarfreq
- Illustration "Three of Bows - Fulfillment" by Will Worthington from "The Wildwood Tarot"

"All things by immortal power,
Near and Far,
Hiddenly,
To each other linked are,
That thou canst not stir a flower,
Without troubling of a star."

- Francis Thompson (19th century English poet)

It is spring...
A moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black...
And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now...
You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing...
Only your eyes are unclosed, to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.
And you alone can hear the invisible starfall...
And the darkest-before-dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea..
Time passes. Listen. Time passes...
Come closer now...
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night...
Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers,
The movements and countries and mazes and colours,
And dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes,
And flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams...

- Dylan Thomas (Under Milk Wood - Edited)