a quiet darkness befell the horizon.
the silence was unbroken, the world was still.
so still, the trees dare not sway to the wind.
so still, the creatures of the night dare not move.
their eyes lay in the void of the sky;
its visage shocked with rage, cut by blood
as if a knife had been drawn, sharp as the horizon,
from its living sheath and cleaned in the heavens
leaving its precious trail as a point of reference
for a traveler, a friend, or an enemy.
our people know the moon is a mirror,
a humble planet which only recognizes the might of others.
but one must wonder, if this is right,
what rage must the sun be feeling
if crimson cuts the sky at night?