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the rhythm of the night is judged;
underworld shivered,
and golden screams were penalties.
Bloody killer for a day, the wolf howled,
defined by cruel rules of survival,
and in the dark, he was just plaintive dreamer,
crucifying the stars with contempt.
The moon incapably from his white throne
looks on the catastrophe, fall of the darkness,
whispers shares with his dead lover- silence;
his dungeon he already has seen.
Lies fade against the fear of the truth,
hope gives illusive wings
and the chants of the ancient are only protection
to shaky columns of inspiration.
Trapped he was in broken dreams,
blood-thirsty and alone,
he have seen his way in heavens,
but instead of wings, he had claws.
Moon's tears filled the glass,
he drank them with pleasure,
merged with liquid fantasy
that distilled, scouring away rules of grayness.