The Great White Mother waits for her monthly cycle to begin. She lives, never to see the sun set, but carries the memory it in a little black purse which she hides in a chest deep in the centre of the moon. There is a path that leads to the centre of the moon. It is secured by a gate and is locked with a double key. The Great White Mother holds the memories of Life, love and the stars, but she has lost her key and now she waits for her monthly cycle to turn. She longs for the light of day, where she seems to disappear, where existence belongs to another,: where light cancels out, where the keys dwells but cannot be possessed. She yearns for friendship, for youth, for lovers, and children, for lost histories and a lost key. From the light of her heart, she begins to dance, she dances and spins and weeps. Her dress, full today, is as white and as wide as a brides. Locked in the purse are dreams of of a bride, a groom, of children and grandchildren, of futures untold. As her monthly cycle ends, the Great White Mother withers, Her dancing slows Pain colours her dress red. as she realises again There are no memories and treasures to unfold no path no keys no purse of stories untold And that next month is a another month, a new month, and she will begin her monthly cycle again. The Great White Mother will make a new path, locked by a gate, secured by 2 keys At the end of the path she will seal her dreams She will dream and live to see the sun set to grow, to love and she will make her dreams real and her dreams will become memories And the memories will be placed in a little black purse And the Great White Mother will lock them in her heart. The heart of the Moon.