Upon the still burning of night, light shines in the void;
Every winding season carries its ghost,
The mariner sails in the tides of time;
The signaling hands wake the winged throat.
Figures are formed from the lever of the clock;
Summer teaches its feathered arms to fly,
Fall sings the dove its mournful song,
Winter weaves the chain of the holy sea,
And spring gives birth to all its dead.
The trees shall inform the quartered change
As the worm crawls from trunk to branch,
Cloudy turning of the rooted veins
Shall cast the harbor into its cycled grave.
As the light of the sun will darken the skies,
Veiled by the sight of the bleeding moon;
The timeless insect will be betrayed by time,
As time itself will break upon its mortal wound.
- J. M. Thomez