Now as oaken trees are broken, and the clocks hang on the hour, where the gothic bells are sounding with no bellman in the tower one who ran a global gauntlet with a burning, burning speed and awoke the mangled Hydra whom the basalisk will heed while the oceans seethe and cower at the stars they’re pummeled by and the clouds are ripped by living constellations from the sky, kneels before a black Madonna while the falling angels swarm and the sheet of night reveals that the lightning’s from no storm and that altars of the cities rage a sacrificial mass, glowing with a million candles made of melting steel and glass which reflects a burning orchard and the moon that quenched the sun and the mirrors telling lookers “nothing good can now be done.”