The death throes of daylight set the sky ablaze. silent pyres are heaped with the bodies of the meek. a twilight inferno: prelude to utter blackness, the erlking's only boon. in the shadow which offers no relief we explore the caverns of thought and pluck stars from the sky, striving. but armour wrought from rhetoric and axes blunt by willful ignorance offer no protection--only shackles and an early demise. excise guilt. abolish doubt. is there no escape from ahimsa's snare? natures face be stained red by claw and tooth. but even rusty tools--misshapen and vile--have their uses. there can be no life for the weak.