Beneath that dear canvas of pitch,
Punctured with innumerable glimmering holes,
We lay back and stare into the firmament of abyss
And remark internally of the infinity of our souls.

If only we could not comprehend
The ephemeral nature of this repose,
But all our times will come to an end,
And this is a fact all of sapience knows.

Regardless of where we locate our rest,
And whether it may fill us with terrible fear,
We will all end up in the place we earned best,
And that final answer is all well ever hear.

We cannot know what follows us at the end of our days,
But the night surely passes and is forgotten beneath the shimmering rays.


Penned by my hand on the 14th of Aeguary, in the year 743 AF.