Plumes of black poured into the gloaming
from the wheezing mouth of the cave.
Tonight let them be what they will never truly be.
Don't call them out as barn swallows
but 'terror on the wing'.
Let me be what I will always be.
I took a step towards the dark,
the dark took a step towards me.
All holes. No Glory...
the cherry glow,
only rubies reflecting in the early snow.
Send me up in plumes of black smoke.
Swallows gather rubies from the mines.
They scrape the ground with their fists,
losing their grip over the snowdrifts,
rising punching holes in the black smoke.
The clouds are shearing off the ugly moon,
beams into the mouth of the quarry,
floods the column of black smoke,
through the perforations, splinters, splinters, splinter,
throwing light in the fields below,
rubies sparking; the early snow.
Oh, glory. Glory. Oh, glory.