II. As rapacious curls bereave the sky, initiating the typhlotic plunge,

The aching in our bones Ever-penetrating, betraying our wills. The whispering of honeyed words Chattering: "Work for work's sake." The ink blotting the page, Erasure of our being. The clouds of incense relentlessly curl, The sun will never return here. Stand intoxicated, stand bereft of breath, Stand witness to a world plunged into typhlosis. How sweet this smell? This poison? O, to believe in the goodness of power...