From these shadows, a haunted path,

a silver serpent

slips through the darkness

Cool wind and bitterness now stirs awake

the soul that slumbers here before

the whispering waters

that dreams its name.

Here the darkness has drunk a cerulean day:

The goblin-shaped miasmas of the night

And phantom griffins of the mist take flight

along a poppy-flowered path

Dark dreams of eidolons,

The fitful and fevered

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ghosts bearing the hate

of the fallen,

the pale desire

whose eyes have looked on

sorrow and have seen,

Deep in the slithering ebon tide,

Their own unavailing light inverted;

the whispered secret of love and despair,

the twisted hopes withering blind

before the winter-blossoming flowers.

The land lies darkling and forlorn,

while falling stars flicker and fade,

Their faltering amethyst flames light

the river flowing into the endlessness,

eternity itself

dimmed and weathered by

oblivion.