A needle-point of violet in the high,
It does not cast a glow of silver fire;
But leaks a liquid darkness through the sky,
To drown the flicker of the solar lyre.
The poets dip their quills into the night,
To catch the essence of a dying sun;
And write in verses devoid of any light,
Of all the battles that were never won.
The parchment stains with shadows of the deep,
Where monsters move beneath the written line;
And ancient secrets wake from heavy sleep,
To twist around the human and divine.
The heavens weep a river made of ink,
Until the stars begin to fade and blink.
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