The Crimson Moon bleeds on the Hearth,
To swallow the collapsing earth.
For eight eight eight eight billion names,
Are born from Peruere’s black flames.
The Ledger of the Tsaritsa groans,
Beneath eight trillion children's bones.
A gothic sea of skin and ash,
Where shadows of the orphans clash.
No lullaby can soothe the dread,
Of trillions begging to be fed.
They crowd the halls, they choke the air,
A monument of cold despair."Oh Father, look,
" the crows all cry,"Your children blot out all the sky!
"The Web of Spies is woven tight,
With endless tears into the night.
She does not weep, she does not mourn,
To this bleak empire she was born.
The scythe is raised, the embers glow,
Across the pale, blood-dusted snow.
Eight trillion hands hold tiny knives,
Eight trillion dark, discarded lives.
A phantom march, a grim design,
The House of Hearth, the endless line.
the story about Arlecci No
© Copyright: Руслан Трохнюк, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №226051701898
Свидетельство о публикации №226051701898
Рецензии