The colors sang, and burst their hues, revealing danger’s edge.
It cut right through my sleeping eye, and burned, and flew, and raged.
The singer brought her weapons sharp, from ancient vaults and skies.
The fallen flew, the dead took wing, a vital fire for eyes.
I sat and burned, I fell and died; emerged from wombs anew.
The library was gone, you see, and all that lived, I knew.