She bends slowly to kiss the ruin,
Broken parapets and blackened skies,
And she knows what Is,
Upon the headiest of sighs.

In the madness of men,
On the backs of the beasts.

With their sweat-slick hides bowed,
With their children cowed.

She embraces their tombs,
Pretty baubles for Her, strewn.

And She calls then, a harsh blade,
Her tongue a thing, Ancient made.

Come, empty sun,
Howl, weeping moon,
See the rags flutter,
Corpses, festooned.

Beholding all that Is.

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 2nd of Ios, in the year 492 MA.