the hunter's star burned brighter than all of the suns in the firmament as through the sky he raged with his hook and blade and the world, unmade
as forests bow and blacken the air as the canopies burn away, and the arc-lights fade and no gull remains to repeat its call
only now would you long for the ancient boughs, the moon, overlapping the long white clouds and the home life of a love who will never return again
no child at all would wake to the light of a sun that is reddening like a robin's breast, and no lioness boards a last, great hull on the waves that close on a world that will never return again and no sound escapes from the night to come.