black and shapeless, below the shifting night.
many a torch burned sickly 'round,
a ring of flickering suns, chained and bound
voices raised to the turrets high,
the moudly castle walls, hymned to
the inky night, the silent clouds.
many a monk were there, knelt and out
drum beats echoed hollow,
ghostly chantings soared, in harmony, so sweet
a lonely bell rang a distance away, and many turned to witness
there was none at all, save the grace and love
tunics hid the withered monks,
kneeling before, prostrate to the heavens,
hands in prayers, eyes of tears,
they sang, and sang, and sang, of
the bass, so deep, so strong, the chanting's heart
the baritone, so warm and calm, the song's own blood.
the tenors, so melodic, so clear, the hymn's lost soul
when alls to be, under the velvet sky,
in crescendoes, the haunting melodies
nothing else mattered
a sliver in my heart it brew,
be the midnight or be it noon,
the souls of darkness,
A prayer to the moon.
"electus proclamus uno sum"