The shrill scream of the night owl pieces through the sky,
As it opens its wings and soars up on high.
The scorched black limbs of the waste rise up,
The amber liquid trickles and smells of blood.
From the ashes those black fingers contort,
Twisting away from those flames that they fought.

Snake tongues of green burst through a ground of white,
A bright contrast to the darkness of night.
And a man walks by – all grim and forlorn.
His expression sagging and his features all worn.
The black limbs grope out towards him – screaming,
But he does not hear their desperate pleading.
What is gone, is gone – and cannot be retrieved.
And he feels able to leave (he knows there’s nothing to grieve).