6: Bleak dusk

Fumes draw lines in salty seas

Contracting light bestowed

The brown-yellow hues

A dusty muse

Heralding tales bellowed.

She sings of sorrow, of joy and pain

She sings of mirrors vain,

Where no man has come

No tear has run

Only gold there can be gain'd.

The sun is frail, a moon itself

A tarnished, gold-veil face

It spits its bowels

To the sound of growls

Longing not for mortal gaze.

For what it sees, the muse knows not

But if she knew, she'd see

Why fumes athicken'd

Factories lightning-stricken'd

Fatal for immortal shadows can be.