It tears through the lands of Tophet,
Cocytus,
black as venom,
inflammable,
singing,
awaiting the time of the cities,
which are a thousand years away.
The woody wings rest in the marshes,
immune to the nymphic song,
awaiting the arson of the banks,
nearing every second.
If you liked this, you might also like Flight.
Support the page by sharing it or by paying as little as a dollar on patreon.

