Distant fires, waking, searing the ground beneath our feet. Setting ablaze the barren, empty domesticated wild. Our sustenance grown cold now razed, reborn. Always a phoenix: now in ash, now suddenly transformed. The fires creeping from the roof that shelters hell, down deep below, a distant roar, defeated as our sweat and merriment rain down upon the deadened grass grown pale and parched, now arching up as if it supped upon the weary, wretched living dead. Fixed points among the heavens, their blessed beams that trace rivulets of life into the cracks that, crawling deep, seem endless in their abyss. Life-blood, in torrents, rains and fills the empty veins, the shriveled flesh of dying Earth. She awakens from the Deep, the Slumber who thought her soul his own to measure and to keep.