The wind shines lightning on the mountains gloom;
darker in a moment’s moment it will be.
Anticipation casts an icy chill in my bones,
petrified as the fossil through to the innards.

And when at last the danger comes
it changes its mind and hides.
Now swift, more fast than any known;
I think perhaps it never was.

In time, which is really not,
We are such as that,
that flashes here and disappears,
often leaving a scorched mark.
So are we, there and gone,
leaving our burned signature.