The ashen morn no longer meets me.

And I write as the cloud that has fallen prey to the black sun.

  Acknowledge that the blind are only bereft of vision;

  The gift of sight does not promise sound perception.

Am I indifferent?

  Indifferent, I must be. 

I admit the sky was a grey expanse under my throne;

  the land, however, was painted an inspid leaden hue at his arrival. 

The sun, the emperor of the morning, they named him;

Oh people, pay heed, your repentance awaits —

for his tainted light reveals only paths to damnation he creates!

Beware, oh people —

Beware the shadows that betide those fond of chasing the wrong light. 

They claimed my rain molted their skin —

  A debasing figure I became in their eyes;

 yet they worship the very ashen morn. 

A trail of scorching land follows after the sun's touch;

he is for unaware that his children dwell among ruins they sanctify as whole. 

 

This town fails to recognise the night now is perennial;

and the dawn they seek will never return.