Herald darkness my old friend,
The Sun,
You’ll soon be overrun
By the hands that gently weave,
And in cruelty abide;
Hands that,
From formless graves,
Clasp and grasp and rise.
And they’ll craft a perfect light;
More perfect than yours.
They’ll do it with fingers manifold
And the gilded silk of a dying dawn.
Now, my friend, as ripe apples
Kiss the ground and rot,
So will we, you and me,
Find ourselves buried with the lot;
We too shall become hands
That worship and caress
The young night,
Our soon-to-be mistress.