Alive are the stars, long without breath,
Blown by the wind, as cold as death.
The wings of darkness streak the sky,
And like a flame, move swiftly by.
The life that's found, in a withered land,
Is cut off by a shadowed hand.
In the blackened wind, the stars will die,
And still in gold, there let them lie.
Then in the darkness, at the edge of night,
The stars again, are all alight.
In the woven woods, the shadows roam,
But through the trees, they scarcely comb.
With the spirits of night looming by,
A raptor in the dark does lie.
And the night's cold wind, will not pass by,
For everything is doomed to die.
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