In this, the blistering wave, what is remembered but the last, the most recent detonation of everlasting war darkening even the most well lit sphere? That which calls down its subjects to deliver sermons on the back of the sun for a people that believe in faith more than themselves in the hearth of holiness that goes unchained? Anything less (or more)… A fire burns. Everything is contaminated, dirty. Terror is the cable which straps the bomb, fear, its cart. The derelict move about, carrying on, as one-eyed kings and their henchmen, whose hands are honed into razors and whose hearts strike as drums echoing low the streets, chop the wooden throats of the guilty trees. In this sphere hope shrinks of its throbbing bravery. “This is no way to live!” explodes the seers. “This is pure folly bathing in impure madness!” But not to any invisible deity or dream merchant, like children holding hands praying to escape the cynical hands of their fathers, the gods of youth safely hold them. The
(The Weaver's Song)