Tipping the pile into the furnace.
"Where did our son go? The one who
Obeyed us unquestioningly? Now lost to hopes
That no one in the world shares! Who dares
Question my security? The Golden Compass.
That trilogy fills the mind with wicked thoughts.
Love, atheism, souls? Into the pyre with it!"
It so happened that our knight-errant
Came upon a young maiden in agony
And, pledging allegiance to her and love itself,
He weaved emotions into his tapestry of sincerity
Entwining two threads with a needle of hope
But under moonlight the maiden transformed
To a hapless, dependent, breathless typhoon
And our hero rode off, lest he be swept away.
His steed, Esperante, weak and malnourished
Rides through a forest of crystalline conifers
Beautiful yet cold; "Mark you those monsters
With arms that will freeze you to touch, though they beckon?"
"They are but firs," says the squire, but our knight knows better
Preparing to die just to melt the grand cloak
Invoking Verdedea, he charges full-tilt
Ice cracks, knight falls, and the world fills with light.