To the army which passes the last penumbras
are to them given the last penumbras of death
the air is cool north of quarries tundra
lively it is in quarries of north
poor and tired the trees of that stand upon this plain
on this cold plain the trees are given a pallor
by the stars upon spindly legs they crouch again
as spiders with monstrous legs devouring the hour
many have not lived longer than a fleeting sigh
of life emerging from between pearly white teeth
of arches aflame disaster crouching beneath
arches which burn the broken body's last outcry
