The night hastened,

held, soaked, enclosed,

and befell to the Moon.

A dark pour of fine

and smooth sap of

blood has descended.

Slowly but surely the

filling decoration of

crimson red brightened

its dark ambition of

the night on Moon.

Moon does not shine;

it reflected the endless

reddening of lunar, that

we have come to know

as the twilight, that

enveloped the boundless.

Of the demigod in red cape,

in his kingly seat on

piles of skulls upon

piles and in his lordship

over death, he can only

stare you from the

etherworld and underworld

of Moon dyed in blood.

He exclaimed: “A tanto

non indignabere vinci.”

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