The words have all been spun. The fire is dead.
The tale is told, and silence fills the room.
The ghosts go yawning back into the tomb—
Each strange dark creature seeking out its bed.
The storyteller puts away her lute,
Smiling to think how underneath the claws,
The gory fangs, the pale and drooling jaws,
They still were children, spellbound, rapt and mute.

Ah, are we not all sometimes dark and strange?
What power is in a storyteller's rite!
I vow that even creatures of the night
Hearing of light, do sometimes yearn to change.

O weavers, story-singers! Live—live long!
Build worlds, change worlds, be worlds—with word and song.