Within the black, ere sun's first breaking light,
one could conceive not life within the dark.
However, dawn's new brightest beams alight
upon a simple orb beyond remark.

Within this shell, so still and fragile, lives
the hope, the dream, that something might soon be.
And so within the worshipped light it gives
a longing soul extends a silent plea.

A panicked witness stands as cracks begin
and death's miasma creeps out from the crags
now formed from pure and smoothest ivory skin.
The soul, at sight of rotted infant, gags.

From tomb the corpse slips, dripping blood red wine,
for death is god's will, be it so divine.