Glassy-eyed phantoms lean towards each other in conference
while the owls sharpen their talons on flint.
The lovely star-freckled winter night closes her lips, the crescent moon
a single fang in her mouth.
Pointed cedars tilt their green spears towards the ocean
whose carefree melodies soon grow spoiled.
Fires burn the crowns of hills; makeshift lanterns in a sightless realm.
Ships ready themselves for battle, carrying their
bleeding masters towards destiny and death.
Always death.
Even the birds can see it and their weeping cries can
be heard across the countryside.

"Adieu, adieu, adieu…"