§7 : What a time.
The shadow of the mount is asleep. It gently rises and falls, following the calm breaths of the stars above.
Quills dipped in celestial ink dance the saturnine waltz of Time, which dishearteningly puppeteers the sorry Hydras. If able, the sisterhood would weep as Alar, of whom the doors, rusted and withered, are pried open in a cry for the few who are let through. If willing, the lords and gods would shed singular tears, pushing of their feelings' might the dreaded desert up ahead.
But they ignore the old moon, forlorn already of age of fast. And they know, wizards that they are, that these lands are not the place where you spill tears… No, no, no, it is too late for that, you see… This cracked soil is where, like beads of silver rolling on the old parchment, ink cries, which echo the Hyades' beheld chronicles, dry in the oh-so-soft, but oh-so-cold breeze of the frozen evening at the shore by the azure lake.
But, back then, back there, there are dancers. The dancers of an agonizing world : the grime-ridden cadaver of our owns. Yes, the corpse of these worlds, where we laughed and we cried our sulfur and arsenic overflows; where we spent fading eternities eating our unhealthy ancestors' corpses and licking the medals of their posthumous honors; where we dug to mine the gold of their hemorrhagic caves and to pocket the eyes of their cadavers, fresh of hydrocarbons; where, with such grandeur, we were the gangsters of a metastasis age, we used to steal the souls of cloned clowns and cartoon baboons with pressure-washed dreams !…
What a time of love and desolation we were given to see.
What a time of strife and salvation we were given to seek.
What a time of rot and oblivion we give for you to sieve.
The Hyades, from their mount upon which few are those who can climb, thank you.