The much-foreboding cloak of blackest night
Had covered Perurere’s hemisphere
Completely as it could, as was its way,
And forty hours of black would dominate;
The forty hours of sun and five between,
Arising from the terminator caused
By th’atmospheric fudging of the light,
Having been vanquished by rotation, and
All set to wait their turn while in the queue,
Had vanished, into blackness transmuted.
Already shots were fired into the air,
The sick’ning, rotten inhumanity
And aura of the night-time justified
To Fortiss and Goodfellow with reports
From business ends of weapons alterèd
In ways illegal, for illegal ends.
“Colonial Marines!” Goodfellow yelled,
And Fortiss with him jumped into the fray.
“Put down your weapons now!” Fortiss screamèd,
“Get on the ground and you do as we say!”