Gothien

'Twas a magical moonlit night,
With molten silver upon the ground,
And crystal dewdrops on the grass,
When young Gothien was found

A Moon Weaver at his birth,
Taking strands of purest light.
And in the air he braided them,
For all the world's delight.

And then the Sun, he did braid
Burning white upon his coat.
A symphony of silvered gold
Music no composer wrote.

The colours burned so strong and pure,
And what he wove glowed e're so bright
So when mortals gazed upon the evening sky
A sunset was within their sight.

This Moon Weaver of the rarest kind,
Just as the sun puts out its light,
Lays his braids upon the darkning sky
And prepares the way for Night.