Hurling toward the rising of the black sun,
how can he sleep?
The morning darkness fills his heart with dread,
even if the eastern waves are stilled for just a moment,
Stilled but not subsided, darkness hovering in mockery,
hovering above a still tormented soul.

Can the dark suns ever lift a wounded spirit?
Can they wash away
attacks of demons that break upon his spirit
like waves across a wind swept shore,
only to create a horrid undertow
that pulls him farther from the very solace that he sought?

Thrown upon a foreign shore
he stands among the teeth of dragons,
embedded in high hills that overlook a white-capped sea below,
Stone teeth brushed clean by cold sea winds,
that blow unbroken from the south or east or west.
where cloudy darkness sharply meets a stormy sea.

Can his cries dispel imagined mists
that screen the dark light of sun?
From which direction may his enemies arise?
How can he bear their frenzied furious attacks?
And what of all the unshorn sheep that graze surrounding grassland?
How have they escaped the dragon?
Why has Themis vanished from his view?

When the dark sun sets, will he rise again to walk among us?
Will surrounding mists and fears disperse?
Will the demon Archons fast retreat to hide inside their alien hell?
Will the dark sun ever rise again?
Or can the light now disentangled from the darkness shine again?