The sky extends his sable hand
Over the poplar row;
The moon, a withered and vague thing –
Contracts her eyes of snow.

From orc-like pupils, dim as wreck –
A silken thread unwinds
And weaves across the world entire
Its false, beguiling kinds.

Within the listless air, alone –
The crow's prophetic call
Scrapes ceremonial against
An idol's blinded wall.