The sky with cracking rumble growls,
rain showers down, the wind howls,
gray darkness overshadows all,
crackle-lightning sparks, thunders fall,
winds to every war-torn compass-point
rush and hurry. Worlds are out of joint,
wild, wavering, swept away by storm.
Rolling shadows with electric whips
across the roads and highways rip,
dripping drops of splattered rain in rush,
carve rivers, fill them, push them, make them gush.
The clouds like feathered serpents crackle, dance,
twist and writhe in mists by cunning chance,
dream-begotten in the darkened virgin sky,
emerald-green and arrow-pierced by days gone by.
The dawnstar-serpent, wise of ways,
clocks the turning time, the cycling days,
fury-storms over heavens high,
bleeds for men, in blazing burning dies.
The second sun in wrath will gust,
terror to wicked men, hope to just;
rumble-laden heavens ripped with lightning-flame
speak submission and the precious serpent's name.