Night Ever-eater! Out of the titans,
you are the one the barbarian hordes
think oleander. Through the long aeons,
you, like a wizard, spell-wrought, winding,
have, like the myriad quarries of archaic time,
shown us the dream of a brain-bent madman,
drunken and weird, right out of your head,
mute, like he who walks in his sleep,
but yet doesn't stray. The cauldron, shining,
claimed by Chaos, when in creation's
morning boiled, antediluvian, already hoary,
you watched the plasma's quarks be estranged.
Thus did the same sing, dust of achievement,
wrought by the age-old spells gone by,
veiling the harps with a twilit dusk-light,
while, fast-flying, measuring meetly, quickly,
matter did cordon the secret abyss of the void,
and the sun shook out its pounding sword
as the skies did ring: ”Rust, oh Iron, hoho!”

But, you do not speak, only, you open
the wound-traps, hungry and glare-wide,
deeps of the space-ways, the omens of aeons
of oddness of old. Grey now the language
futile of flowers of earth, into the harbor of inlets,
delirious, rows mere mankind's emotion,
the strike of my eye is tossed by the sprays like leaves,
under the pleats of the vast sullen ocean.
Night, Ever-eater! You are the one who shone,
over the head of the nymphs of the forests,
far over mountains and years, the scorn,
now hidden of suns long dead. When star-flame
has burnt fully out, space and being in its whole,
loved so dearly and well, will in entropy wane.
Then you, prince of the void, shall hover,
last of the last, your veil as the final flag.
Your dark robes, o Night, only time's death will douse.