### Part III: When the Wall Grows Thin The harvest is gathered, the last fields are bare, The herds leave the mountains and descend to the air. The valley fires kindle, the tables grow wide, And the bright half of summer gives way to the night. The old year is turning, the warm road is done, The dark half is coming to swallow the sun. The doors are all bolted, the hearthstones are bright, And something is changing outside in the night. For there is a wall that no eye can see, Between what is here and what used to be. And when the old season gives way to the new, The wall grows thin enough for a hand to pass through. ### Shared Chorus **Round the fire and round the flame, Remember every ancient name. Hill and hollow, shore and tree, What is gone is not yet gone from thee. Mask the face and light the hearth, Walk the road between the worlds. Dark and holy, hand in hand, Meet together on the land.** Do not call the dead. Do not command. Sit beside them in the old household way, Remember the names and let them stay. For once the oldest custom was simple and plain, No spell was required and no bargain was made. The living sat quietly beside what was gone, And remembered together until morning came on. No crown for the dead one, no prayer to demand, Just an empty place and a familiar hand. The dead were remembered, the living drew near, And nobody needed to pretend there was nothing to fear. Then another tradition came walking the road, Carrying candles and carrying hope. A night before holy ones gathered in prayer, With the ordinary dead remembered thereafter. The names changed slowly as centuries turned, But the old fires beneath them still burned. One night for the holy, one day for the dead, Yet both walked the same road beneath the same sky overhead. ### Shared Chorus **Round the fire and round the flame, Remember every ancient name. Hill and hollow, shore and tree, What is gone is not yet gone from thee. Mask the face and light the hearth, Walk the road between the worlds. Dark and holy, hand in hand, Meet together on the land.** Then coats were exchanged on the roads between homes, And wanderers carried their songs as they roamed. Some carried prayers for the dead who had gone, And received bread in return before moving along. Later came children with masks on their faces, Knocking on doors in the old familiar places. The customs changed shape, but the meaning ran through, A gift at the threshold for something you do. So frightening and sacred were never apart, They traded their coats but remembered the heart. The mask could be holy, the holy could frighten, And both walked the road when the old fires were lightened. Something may wander when the old wall grows thin, Something that never was born from within. Not every traveler arrives with a name, Not every stranger arrives with a claim. There is one old wanderer spoken of still, A child on the road moving calmly and still. One eye in the center, one face looking plain, Walking from doorway to doorway through rain. It asks for no bread. It steals nothing away. It simply looks slowly through every lit window, Then turns from the household and walks down the road. Do not chase it. Do not call. Some wanderers simply remember us all. ### Shared Chorus **Round the fire and round the flame, Remember every ancient name. Hill and hollow, shore and tree, What is gone is not yet gone from thee. Mask the face and light the hearth, Walk the road between the worlds. Dark and holy, hand in hand, Meet together on the land.** So put on the mask that resembles your fear, Laugh at its shadow and keep your loved ones near. Become for an evening the thing that you dread, Then take off the mask when the old night has fled. Wear the face of the wolf. Wear the face of the dead. Wear the shape of the thing that you fear in your head. Not because darkness is harmless or small, But because fear grows larger when nobody calls. Look straight at the shadow. Give fear its name. Then sit by the hearth and remember the same. Remember the mother. Remember the friend. Remember the stranger whose story did not end. Remember the child. Remember the old. Remember the names that the years cannot hold. And when the wind scratches the roof through the night, Move closer together beside the firelight. For the purpose was never to worship the fear, Nor summon the dead so the dead would come near. It was simply to stand where the old boundary lies, With the dark at the window and fire in your eyes. The household stands. The household stays. The household remembers the vanished days. The dark may be waiting beyond the door, But the hearth is still burning upon the floor. Dark and holy, hand in hand, Meet together on the land.*
