A veil of adamantine drawn, a drape across the sky,
a timeless void of vacancy, that turns and with a sigh
confronts the womb of rising day, a birth that with its cry
like infant tears announces years of life those lights supply.
It gashes out—a flame of red, a streak of scarlet wine
a dragon scout that’s come to rout the night shade’s grand design.
A soundless crash, the dragon reels as midnight coils twine
and cloaked in cloud, an evil shroud attacks the flaming line.
Dragon wars cannot be heard, and so the silent clash
rips clouds apart in noiseless bouts of flame and gain and slash.
And every moment from the sun, a dozen light-beasts flash
as night time slowly draws away, from every brazen lash.
And now the fire explodes in shades of pink and flaming gold
the painting frenzy of the dawn, the oldest tale of old.
The once almighty night retreats in greying wisps of cold,
and leaves behind the crisscross lines: to tell of battles bold.
Many scholars doubt this truth, this battle of the skies.
They talk of atmospheres and clouds, tell us all the lies
of fantasy are in our heads. But those who use their eyes
will know the point, not just the facts, can make a person wise.