II.

Old things die in the cradle of their birth

moaning, thrashing at the foundations

of the deep, at the roots of the world.

The gentle retirement of autumn

from verdant hues to gilded crowns

belies a Tellurian strife

of rock and water, of wood and flesh.

Ever the world; the heart,

resonates from cavernous expanse

the sounds of fragmentation, of rending.

No shy repose for aching bones

only the dull throb of yearning

only the parched resolve for consolation.

Winds weep and wail in the wilderness.

Souls groan under assault.

Thunderheads beckon, burgeoning,

as their shadows envelop the valley floor.

Earth cries out for violence;

with birth bound in the breaking.

Prince and pauper

mere and marish

alike in solemn expectation

with eyes horizon-fixed for the red dawn

and in their prayers that rush 

to fill the void of night.