The rising wind bewails the night;
The air hangs in shrouds
That further blacken
Whatever hope or light there was.
From the realms of dark
And twisted worlds,
The hell-charred souls take flight
Across a tortured sky.
Almost obscured by the darkness
A figure walks alone,
Of all the ghastly things about.
The wind becomes a groan, and then
Shadows deepen, as if the blackness
Were not already an all-consuming beast.
And just before the figure goes
Forever into darkness,
An eerie sound, a sob
Not torn from human host--
Or was it just