Insurgens Mortibus

INSURGENS MORTIBUS

The cold naked night air blown
From Elysian fields sadly sown
And the knelling tones of restless
Moans,
Quelled by the fresh earth, mourning and ripened
For deaths dire, ire rebellion.

There, groveling on gleaning graves were
The Manes.
Guided by Orcus in their groping, gainless
Pains.
High on ebony pedestal sat Orcus
With pomp, peerless.
The overseer of the dead, defiant and
Dauntless.
The time of eons past had come to them
At last.
The Goddess of half the living world, Nys,
Prepared the odious scene,
On earth’s unpious sleep serene.

Nona and Decuma, each a side of Mors,
Staidfully held the vessel from which life pours,
Ready to avenge their life of burning black
Doors.
Then with sudden, sullen exultation,
The whips the Manes for respitation.

The ominous army, black armored, moved forth
On the cringing, crossless earth.

Like a tireless toiling toad the
Wretched army rode.
On the backs of blackened stallions yet unknown.
To set Nys on the perpetual nocturne throne.
Forward they rode in horrid holstered
Array.
With no fears but of lambent light of
Day.
Through their blissful, blasphemous biding
Night.



Then, suddenly, the unbidden sun shown its
Searing shine.
And the Manes mound high
In the torturous torch of twilight.
Orcus, perceiving the painful plight,
Ordered retreat from the inclement inferno
Of lucid light.
Back the fled with rapture rent.
Hurriedly the hateful Deities rode,
To scornful, seething shoel