by Nick Gisburne
She screams, a cry of blood, to find a mate,
But silence greets the sunset of her kind.
The gods, their glory murdered, felled by fate,
Lie dead, beneath the heavens they designed.
She scratches at the canvas of the sky,
To reach, to trace, to touch, what lies below,
But nothing in her powers can defy
The purity of poison in the snow.
She snatches back her fingers as they freeze,
Abandoning this cold, accursed place.
Beyond the tainted touch of its disease,
She mourns the painful passing of her race.
The dream they built together killed them all,
And no one hears the echo of her call.
