Lost now, where wood and wetland roam together,

Synched in night's long ruin, I hear- 

Tusks which gnaw at the roots, hooves at the bark

And snorts of insolence. 

Those falling trees becomes lost in the silence,

And where the eye of the moon grows pitch, now dark,

Saturn gleams like new blood in the sky.

Yet for all my fear of lightless things,

Is not the sound of boars quite comforting

When all the stars are wrong above you.

The marionette no strings?