Thou art no sun ascending, no great light,
but merely darkness leaving—all the rags
of deadened moons in stony sleep removed
as columns of the journey’s spine are passed.
And in the curling ghost amid the night—
whose voice was stolen, and her lungs burnt black
by all the breaths of silence she withdrew
into the sparkling void in whom collapse
the towers craning everything to sky,
and in so doing leaving all the land
such that I, too, wert left to grieve my doom
—this worship of her pain my soul entraps.
Thus have I given her to rage and flight
from all I have to all I long and lack.
The birth, the burning of her wings is soon:
Enchanting you with her, I have relapsed.