The one who sets in motion strange, impossible/Works, that once begun/
will stretch forth into space and time,/towards a history yet unborn,
The night is silent; but is it holy?/The night’s freezing, the hour ungodly!/’Tis the hour when evil shapes/slink out of their filthy lair/and flit amongst the shadows
A horned owl hooted in derision across/the dark, putrid air (which was strange/because an ochre sun still glowered/on the horizon),/But no crickets chirped.
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