Sunday, May 12, 2013


Gold was the light that shone in the towers of Ethras,

Green was the mountain where Protas stood, alone with his thoughts,

White were the clouds that cast shade on the nourishing plain.

Black is the sky this day.

The plain flashes red.

Red sparks as numerous as stars honed edges gleaming

The color of hills that are clothed in murmuring flame,

The color of blood washing the threshold of the library.

Say the ravagers: this is the wrath of the over-God

Of whom we are the instrument in this world of things.

Things that we are. Things that you are.

Things that you have made with the work of clever hands

Things that by right share a common doom.

No Mynster, no crypt, no labyrinth can shelter us this day, but only the wastes that stretch beyond the ken of even the most abject slines.

From Lament For the Third Sack