Spring of Life, Op. 10

In the midst of that swirling black madness,
escaping from the hidden crevices on the bottom
of the cauldron of Hell, ashes and dust the colour
of thunderclouds mix with the pallid waters.
Poison and corruption itself seem to seep
through this abyssal rift; the heat is immense,
no creation of light could stand - and none do -
only the works of alternate night and day
persist and proliferate. Encircling this black
sun, a hollow tower, like a chimney, spirals
upwards alongside a plume of smoke; here,
the flora of night inhabit their natural estates.

A garden of bizarre colours, a multitude
of eccentries, this writhing mass horrors is
thickest - most myriad - besides the tower.
Moving outwards, the wisps of life grow sparse -
and greater! The societies of inner circle pale
before the nameless monstrosities of outer waters,
until, like everywhere, the greatest beasts grow lonely...
And where the memory of the heat grows weak,
no sign of life is to be seen: this fount of life
only a faint whisper.