The sun crouched, the commander of the day.
Ready to spring, to clear the way.
He turned hotter, redder, furious.
Watching the azure, alert and curious.
A single crow flew across the sky.
‘Black, maybe charred,’ smiled the sun, ‘but not sly.’
It crossed the incensed ball of fire.
The day thought it would tire.
Not a bird, but an arrow.
The night smiled, ‘Sun, how callow.’
It struck the sun, who bled in tangerine.
Then across the sky galloped the blue-marine.
The bloodbath made the sky a battlefield.
Day perspired, to see their losses sealed.
The golden glow diminished, coated in blood.
The blue, fast and fatal, was an eastern flood.
Sun bled out rapidly, on his knees.
The sea, unfortunate witness, offered a breeze.
Finally, the sun fell, the sea swallowing him.
For it was an ally with the blue, you see.
The day staggered back, seeing the sun drown.
He bowed, removing his ruby crown.
Kept it before the night.
She smiled at the sight.
Her forces, dark and lovely, had conquered the sky.
They spilled stars, reveling, rave and high.
Now, they could peacefully dream.
But rumour whispered, the day is preparing another beam.