Sunset cold and indigo touched the horizon with the flavor of upcoming death, and I understand just now how I joyfully anticipated this magnificent moment.
When the blood of the clouds silently wore off the cold and royal violence silently arose from the inner core of the earth's atmosphere.
I chose my weapon. What should I chose?
To all those ghastly shadows, I have to act fast now. They will rage and burn and howl, and I can't stand it anymore.
To the battle, to the war, I say.
To the cold, cold dwelling off you go.
This orchard is mine, and mine only. And everything in it, the smallest thing, is consecrated by my existence.
Off you go, to the cold, cold dwelling.
With horrid poetry I sunk into the darkness, and when not a single straw of light, Moon so dark, didn't grace the dark and cold ground, I turned and disappeared between tall ancient trees.
