There is a profound hope we dare not utter
and a light of which we dare not speak,
and we ask you,
King of Concealment,
Master of dark technique,
to open the locks between the stars
and set out your final feast
where we will eat the distance that bars,
and smash goodbyes under our tankards,
and from the book You will read us our own story
and we will laugh at its glory
and cheer ourselves as we cheer the blindfolded.
The feast will go on and on,
and we won’t mind,
because the night is Yours and light,
and together our fear is delight
as long as it doesn’t have to end.
But until we hear Your answer,
ends do us ensnare,
and everything must finish,
even this small prayer.