Her head bent
Like reeds blown in a storm.
The veins of her throat pulse
Hot blood pumping
Up and out her gaping mouth.

Her damp locks veil her face
From the flames in consume
Surrounding the grove where she sits.
Those which had once been her eyes
Now blackened by burning soot
Pay her no more ability of sight

In the dark clutches of night
Where flames and embers
The world’s lantern
Tempest clouds
Let loose salty tears.

In this hollow space
Between the wind’s gusts and fires crusts
She sings what her voice
Holds left:

*Hail the silence of the burned trees
Hail the curses of the world’s ceaseless moans
Hail the blindness of the flaming bees
Hail the round-topped sheltered domes
This grove doth bestow
Hey-** hey-**
What doth bestow
Is apt to know
Hey-** hey-**
Hark the withering leaves
Of Autumn’s first winds
Hark the blooming ashes
Autumn’s second tale begins