between the frigid waves of breeze, fuelling my weather kite,
I gazed, far and high, up at the distant depths of a height,
and I saw it, engulfing the sky's starry-showered light,
a nimbus, growing out from a numb november night,
sure the winds up there, are in a warring state of fight,
and earth, trembles, with descent of many, a trailing light,
as if the skies were torn apart, by an Asgardian's flight,
to leave a thunderous echo after a lightning in sight.