Then this ebony bird beguiling
my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum
of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
thou," I said,"art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is
on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

E. A. Poe, "The Raven".


...Dead grey waves were running over the dead molten sand and with
metronome precision rolling back to the horizon where the foaming sea
medley touched upon the dull sky torn up with gaping atmospheric holes
and whirlwind wells heavy with tornadoes. The sky was unwillingly
spitting small, scarcely luminous splashes into the filthy spittoon of
the Earth, the soil lightly smoking in the places of direct hits and
cooling down with caked crust -- it had been smoking for a few years,
though. The wind was roaming along the coast, the wind was whistling in
the dry skeletons of a few remaining buildings, the wind was stirring
the dusty tulle of ashes, showing the bones buried under it. The sky was
gazing at the remains indifferently. It didn't care...
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