Where does the river run in it's beckoning wash, the strews have carried us beyond the measure of our ambitions, when foxfire muskets danced their rigid company formations, all their horrid romances of courage annihilated in a tide of flame,
To this elixir is sacrificed the dauntless, the best of us are shorn by the irreverent gauntlet, upon what spike has all our compassion been mounted to stare at the fallen empire, it's broken mandible holds the presage of desperately unasked questions, now closed by the mire brick kiln,
And night closes it's lips over the bier, when it's licking tongues cease their sprawling tides in withers of ash, when all the wonders of Galileo have been smashed through the windows of our summary conceits