Crossroads
The sickle crescent reaps its harvest,
Swaying in metonic dance.
The stone in my hand is sharp,
It cuts against my palm.
At the crossroads, the place between,
Beneath the ancient oak, I lay it down;
A promise whispered to the night.
Ἐννοδία, Προπύλαια, Τριοδίτης,
Three formed Hekate,
Hold the keys to my design.
Here I stand again, in mind,
If not with feet upon the soil.
I keep my bargain, make my choice,
The cards are drawn, the die is cast.
The torch that guides, the flame that burns,
The silver sword-glint in your eyes.
We walk again the crooked path,
From the tower to the stars.
A decade hence, will I return
As someone else, to speak in different tongues?