Luminous, Unfearful; High-priestesses, Our Fervour Shall Banish

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

You Are Wind In A Stark Tree, You Are The Stark Tree Unbent, You Are A Strung Bow, You Are An Arrow.

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

Writing. Love Is Writing.

War Wreaked On You His Hideous Ravishment; We, We Alone, Nereids Inviolate, Remain To Weep, With The Sea-birds To Chant: Corinth Is Lost, Corinth Is Desolate.