Between the little spaces of their ambition,
Voice unwanted, undeserved,
As sunlight snatched from sketched-on-black winterday:
Valorous not in victory,
But ceaseless action against defeat divinely-destined.
Repent, else descends that endless night?
Let it come. And when, kindling-crushed she sleeps
Within destitute maw,
Swallow and taste naught
But the vast limbs of your words,
For judgment was never yours to hold:
Long ago she escaped, already to the moon.