Night Hunter

In the purple silence of the waters, death rows. Not with the haste of a hunter, not with the fury of a creditor; Quiet, like the last breath of one who no longer wants to fight. The moon, green and sick, shines from the heart of the cracked sky; A light that neither warms nor gives hope— Only shows: this is not the end of the road, But the beginning of a river whose name "return" has never been heard.