Soot would offer dust by eve unturned,
On embers new, when their marches come
All those brewed by fire aghast now burned
As wreathes flow in brooks still and numb,
So small the air that breathes larger stones,
As all things, how drifting the minds get!
Then it took but a sound till more be known
How cool the pace at Veles' drooped net,
A thousand strands descend, no light dispel,
Carried whence a limping sight was morn
Which day now dried the ambers fell,
When comes more shall soot ere be born.