In the darkness late one eve,
a magician produces wand from sleeve.
Grieved by recent words of sooth,
now he understands the truth:
“Regardless of how I may try,
the night is more poetic than I…
So I’ll pierce the silence with my musket,
suffocate the winds with stone;
siphon red from all that whimpers,
then distill it pure in chrome;
I’ll paint the stars all black once more,
let them see a fortune told;
lick green paint onto the leaves,
catch their tears in my chalice of gold.
And then I’ll have the essence
of purest incandescence —
the bidding of the Father.”
That holiest of martyrs.