Faint iridium echoes of the beast
On its relentless swing towards a green
Unknowing orb. Six mile thunderstone,
The blast rang the planet like a bell
And a world of feathered serpents died.
In the bonefield of gods and monsters,
Our utmost furred forebears thrived.
Now our wheels spin on the blood
Of this apocalypse, and silent ghosts gaze
On us with serpent eyes. All the while,
The cycles spin on in the sky.