Deep within the crust of this earth
Bleeds the end of life and a birth.
He—or it—cannot stand on its own
No, not yet
It still shakes the world with a groan.
Here he is, this beast made of rubies
Too scorching for mortals to touch.
Here rises this guardian from the soil
As the skies are brought to a cold boil.
The sea—it dries!—there is nothing left
As the dirt turns to dust in turgid theft.
Here rises earth, from the beast made of
By the fire and rancid dearth and love.
This warrior made of crust and born
Swears upon the cursed race revenge
Against his creator—the patron of the
His life; only then his eyes can see.
His eyes made of rubies and stark,
The edge of its coffin's stolid arc.
Here lies the beast, rising from an
Adorn his skin—yet he is not the