The clouds are jagged shards of bottle-green,
That grind against the thunder’s hollow chest;
A lightning strike of silver can be seen,
To put the quiet valley to the test.
The rain is not a drop of cooling dew,
But needles forged from silicon and salt;
That pierce the wooden cabins through and through,
And bring the rhythmic world to a halt.
The shepherd huddles in a cave of stone,
While diamonds fall like hail upon the grass;
He listens to the wind’s metallic moan,
Across a kingdom made of broken glass.
The morning breaks upon a crystal plain,
Where nothing living shall remain again.
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