When the sun bleeds its velvet wounds, 

Tainting the sky in crimson hues, 

Flocks of darkly plumaged swallows,

Graze the sunlit waters, fringing it with shadows. 

When the sky is shrouded by an ebony cloak of stars, 

And the moon hangs at a perfect crescent, 

The swallows come aloft, 

Silent and obscured by the unfurling twilight. 

Their wingtips brushes past the moon,

Their wings no longer black, are now tasseled with moonlight.