in the swirling mists in the
forest of night beyond the borders
of day there, the twin rivers run

the white heron beckons:
cross the twin rivers, oh
cross the twin rivers.

in the lands between, on the precipice
where the rivers run to the sea, long
beyond the place we can return to,

the white heron calls:
to the other side, to the
far side, beyond the twin rivers

and she follows, oh she follows
if only to see what comes after,
beyond the end of all things.