The night lord robes a dryad in trance
He sways her soul with hymns and lauds
to seek his isle where love hones crowns.
As pink stars twirl they spin lace trains
the sun priest seals vows willed by light.
But tree maids sail to realms of grief
and bathe their heads in pure gilt tears.
The fell moon glares and scorns raw pleas
to loose God's prize he ripped with guile.
His white cape melts; a green skull roars
ire stabs black waves; ten sea fiends rise
Their tails rend wood; souls plunge and rot.
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