Ἑκάτης

Last dying whisper of a wretched beast,
Upon whom wrought were horrors yet unknown,
Nefarious and blasphemous concerns
And dull blunt pain of loss--it goes like this:
“My Moon, Thou guided me in days of sorrow
On achromatic paths of world diseased;
Oh, bless my deathbed with Thy visage’s honour,
Nebula-maned Goddess of the dreams!”
Night falls down fast on clay-made vale of tears,
Yore life’s last sandgrains scatter on the floor;
And on last breath he sees a dreamly figure:
She hugs him off away to Nevermore.
Hold on, my friends; the fate I just described
Awaits us surely in the Future’s raven night.