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Plumes of black poured into the gloaming |
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from the wheezing mouth of the cave. |
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Tonight let them be what they will never truly be. |
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Don't call them out as barn swallows |
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but 'terror on the wing'. |
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Let me be what I will always be. |
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I took a step towards the dark, |
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the dark took a step towards me. |
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All holes. No Glory... |
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the cherry glow, |
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only rubies reflecting in the early snow. |
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Send me up in plumes of black smoke. |
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Swallows gather rubies from the mines. |
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They scrape the ground with their fists, |
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losing their grip over the snowdrifts, |
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rising punching holes in the black smoke. |
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The clouds are shearing off the ugly moon, |
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beams into the mouth of the quarry, |
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floods the column of black smoke, |
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through the perforations, splinters, splinters, splinter, |
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throwing light in the fields below, |
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rubies sparking; the early snow. |
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Oh, glory. Glory. Oh, glory |
