She flies on wings of ivory cloud,
the sun no longer gold,
within a silver amulet
upon a chain she’ll hold.
Her ebon hair now dancing
in the gentle evening air,
She sees the dreams of mortals
as she says her moonlight prayer.
There will be those she’ll cull tonight,
and those she will give dreams.
Her fingers gentle on their brows,
aglow with moonlight beams.
O come now, sweet Moon Angel
for your restless servant waits,
to once again ascend with you to
great Orion’s gates.
Beyond Panic 