The enchantress weaves

Strange spells that cast a falling sun

Into funereal regions dark,

To rest on towers of shadow and mist,

Whose dream-mottled castle have

Time’s spectre for its steward.

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In the silence, a tyrant walks

In the thunder-echoing sky,

In levinbolt palaces

Somber and grey

Beyond a moon

Moated with

Ever-withering infinities.