The Day is dying-- look, her fingers scrape the sky, every dusk it is the same. Bloody streaks glow on the horizon, eeking out of white fingernails, but the attempt is always futile: mercilessly her body is suffocated by Black Night.
Tonight, her hot white pain escapes in points and pierces Night's cloak, like a needle, in millions of places, and her scream--a scream so terrible it rents a hole in the very middle of the heavy velvet veil. After much time, Night tires of her fun, and releases the girl. With an explosion of light, to a coronade of song, the sun returns, triumphant and rejuvenated by her success, her escape. By mid-day, I wonder at her scorching light--has she forgotten the terrors of the night? Heedless of the conseqences, she gaudily exposes her brilliance upon the earth, taunting Night, teasing her absent sister. But lo, in the West, a sight terrible to behold-- the night queen approaches, angered to a feverish pitch Black. And once again, the Day is dying.