| The death throes of daylight set the sky ablaze* | |
| Silent pyres are heaped with the bodies of the meek. | |
| A twilight inferno: prelude to utter blackness, the Erlking's only boon. | |
| In the shadow which offers no relief we explore the caverns of thought and pluck stars from the sky, striving. | |
| But armour wrought from rhetoric and axes blunt by willful ignorance offer no protection--only shackles and an early demise. | |
| Excise guilt. Abolish doubt. Is there no escape from Ahimsa's snare? | |
| Natures face be stained red by claw and tooth. | |
| But even rusty tools--misshapen and vile--have their uses. | |
| There can be no life for the weak* |
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