once pristine . magnificat . myth . 12

Our Sun, our son, be now revived,
smote by kin who against Thou connived —
dissembling villain, uncouth and vile,
vicious foe, iniquitous bile!

With false devotion, Wind chose to rile
Our throne against friends without guile.
To thrash this knave will not placate
Our wrath, Our anguish, Our cold, grey state.

Sky called the guards.  To his dismay,
the Clouds cuffed him with blows and strikes.
With shrouds of night, they dismembered him
while Fierce Wind watched with snickers snide.