Blue-Ruled: A Song Of Summer
           A Song Of The Churni (Death Elwens)
    Not yet the season of the hylea, or of the gold
    That cloaks the leaves of the trees, and enfolds
    The sky in autumn. Nor yet the season of spring,
    When trees are green and growing, and everything
    Gives thanks. No, this is summer, old summer,
    And blue rules the sky; blue is the drummer.

    Blue shakes his tambourine, and the flowers dance.
    Blue rings the delicate bells, and the winds prance
    Through the hair of trees, whose boughs are all laden
    With the summer harvest of leaves green and maiden.
    The grass bows to the sky, which in azure arches
    To the horizon and to the sea without end marches.

    Summer with the months slowly grows old,
    Until it is again the time of the gold.
    Then the air is hot and the air is thick,
    And our black skin with sweat is slick.
    We trade seasons gladly, but we will not forget
    The season that in our minds lingers yet.