Under the mask of infinite night, Where stars are remains of crushed light, A goddess weeps in silent lore, Her name now heard—never more.
Her crown of dusk, a raven’s cry, Her cloak, the breath of those who die. She steps where mortal voices fade, Through time’s abyss, through dreams unmade.
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A shiny river, black with woe, Through hollow realms, its waters flow. It sings of kings who knelt in vain, And queens who danced with death in chain.
The gales moan in eerie sighs, Lamenting those with sightless eyes, Who sought to glimpse her twilight throne, Yet shivered cold, reviled, unknown.
The stars she crushed with weary hands Now glimmer dark in distant lands, Their voices vanished in chasms deep, Where none may wake, where none may weep.
Her sign reweaves the threads of fate, She turns the key to sorrow’s gate, And through that door, all echoes wane, To drift within her boundless reign.
The moon once swore a lover’s plight, Yet shivers now, bereaved of light, For even Luna fears her name, And hides in clouds to flee her claim.
No hymns remain, no psalms endure, No shrine stands, no being is pure. The lost now stoop where shadows swell, And murmur prayers she’ll never tell.
Oh, sang her name but not too loud, Lest straggled hands lace forth your shroud. For in her gaze, all light decays, And dawn shall be a myth for days.
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