Our four sable eyes, fat with sleep,
from vivid dreams that made them weep,
       slowly rose to life newborn
   to a silent summer morn.

Our four arms stirred from the core,
   like driftwood on the shore.

The night had slumped away.
It's black, foreboding form of play
   had left us drawn-
   slack, and unprepared for dawn.

But there was life yet in our bones.
    Hope.  Desire.  Will.

We had not yet died,
     though still.

And we had not yet
given Death our parts,
  to work with
    in his rigid arts.