Across its name are scattered stars
Which spiral round its buried heart,
And sear into its awful hide
The marks of its divided soul.
Its bellowed cries are heard for miles
Across the ruined moor-top mines
When twice a month the moon has horns,
And mocks the wreck which sobs beneath.
A hundred years they fed its lust
For sacrifice and poisoned blood,
Then left it trapped below the spoils
To howl as only monsters howl.
Although the stars which brand it shine,
Its fate is lived through buried shame.