once pristine . magnificat . myth . 17

But if all should float into oblivion,
Acheron’s woes and Cocytus’4 laments
would then overflow and flood the realm
of ageless shadows, timeless despair.

The Wise Mounts surveyed their lurid home,
the sallow, fogged vault, the Tyrant’s helm,
where Wan Moon’s pallid glow scarcely shone
through her courtesans of Clouds.  “What shame,

Earth suffers,” sighed Wee Ant, “to sham
allegiance to the Liar, a shrine
of hell.  You must devise a plan
to pluck Wind of ill-gotten plume!”