Whispers fall into the silver of night
As old men of charity succumb to the dearth of light.
Winged patriarchs of number fill the tops of trees
While priest seeking penitence gather on bended knee.
Days crumble beneath the weight of worldly sin
Tomorrow haggles the nights precursor
As the future of yesterday is soon to begin.
Oh little does man know of how it will soon be,
As the night of forever is consumed by a desert sea.
The stars of heaven will wax so cold,
The mountains of Abelís courage
Will rise once more to the light behold.
Then from within the silver darkness
The sons of Cain will of at last taste
The enmity of their own destruction
As the future of their sordid tomorrow is laid to waste.
J. Allen Wilson © Eight 2006