Here’s where we see what the day owes the night:
this hall that’s nowhere in my father’s house;
here, where the guardian shadows just might,
with the cannibal chants, shut my wolf dreams out.
Time’s too short to cut with a mad scalpel:
already the autumn o’ phantoms creeps,
breathing flight in the swallows o’ Kabal
& winter winds in North Sea balconies.
The love, the fantasy, they can’t hide in
the attack that always breeds the dying.