Still falls the rain. The veils of darkness shroud the blackened trees,
which, contorted by some unseen violence, shed their tired leaves, and
bend their boughs toward a gray earth of severed bird wings. Among the
grasses, poppies bleed before a gesticulating death, and young rabbits,
born dead in traps, stand motionless, as though guarding the silence
that surrounds and threatens to engulf all those that would listen. Mute
birds, tired of repeating yesterdays terrors, huddle together in the
recesses of dark corners, heads turned from the dead, black swan that
floats upturned in a small pool in the hollow. There emerges from this
pool a faint, sensual mist, that traces its way upwards to caress the
feet of the headless martyr's statue whose only achievement was to die
too soon, and who couldn't wait to lose. The cataract of darkness forms
fully, the long black night begins, yet still by the lake a young girl
waits. Unseeing she believes herself unseen, she smiles faintly at the
distant tolling bell, and the still falling rain.


Now, that should wake ya up!



Penned by my hand on the 25th of Lupar, in the year 332 AF.