The last story ever to be told
was whispered to an infant
born in an unlucky time
just moments before the end
of everything we once thought to be Everything.

Almost a biblical scene:
The ash-snow covered the ground outside,
and a baby lay in a makeshift manger.

The child, understanding nothing of the plot,
was only comforted by the raspy voice
and rough, cracked hands
of a kind old stranger.

A lance of morning light
beamed on them from a small hole
in the rusted ceiling.

He spoke just loud enough
to drown out the distant cries
of those who burned alive
for the sins of greedy men.