Template:Dsh warm soft dark of night

Triago: Though my shaking pen prescribes a bitter arc
Yet carveth it these precious extant moments
To keep them safe from, and above, the noisy din
That hungrily devours much earnest wordage.
Yea, I wouldst preserve’t, yet
Upon the mannish tabernacle
Wherein are etched, in faltering runes,
The mortal strokes of our collect accomplishment.
Herewith, my paltry contribution. Mark it well, Herculio:
For I am dying, Equatorial Guinea, dying —
And in the warm, soft dark of night
Wherein our private phantoms scratch and scale
And assault our crumbling mental battlements
We dream of molten eternity cast upon our mould
But scarcely canst we credit ’t.
So be it —

Dies

EXEUNT