A cry goes out that chills the bone
like wolf that howls in woods alone,
without a source that eye can see,
but distant, near, and next to me.
It tells of woe of ancient day,
of burdens heavy on the way,
and darkness, like some demon's hand
that clasps the mouth and shrouds the land.
On westward hills the towers rise
like shadow-fangs that scrape the skies
and mark the tomb and catacomb
that covers sun in after-roam,
that marks the grave where glory dies
and, buried, shrouded, nightly lies.