The Raven’s Take
A Shadow Upon the Firmament
Lo! A spectral harbinger glides through the abyssal void, a wanderer of the eternal night, bearing tidings of doom upon its stony brow. This wayward leviathan, this vagrant of the aether, drifts toward our fragile sphere with the impassive certainty of fate itself. The learned astronomers, those modern soothsayers clad in the garb of science, have peered into their mechanical oracles and foretold a dire possibility—an impact most ruinous, a visitation of celestial wrath that would scatter cities to dust and set the heavens aflame with a conflagration not seen since the birth of the world.
Oh, had we not long feared such a visitation? Did not the ancient scribes—those keepers of forgotten lore—whisper of fire descending from the void, of great ruin wrought by the caprice of the stars? And now, in this present age, we look upon the specter of our undoing with the cold calculation of numbers and probabilities, as if logic could temper the indifferent hand of destruction!
The Doom That Lurks Unseen
A thing unseen is no less real, and a terror intangible is no less dreadful! Though the learned minds assure us that the chance of collision is faint—merely a whisper upon the wind—let us not be so bold as to scoff at the fury of the cosmos. For what is man but a fleeting shadow upon the earth, his dominion as fragile as gossamer, his cities but castles of sand upon the shore? What might stands against the heavens’ decree?
Imagine, if you dare, the moment of reckoning! The sky, once the vault of celestial beauty, grows dark with the specter of doom. A firebrand descends, a chariot of wrath, and in an instant—a single, merciless instant—the earth shudders, the air ignites, and all that stood proud crumbles into ruinous ash. The very bones of the world tremble beneath the stroke, and the lamentations of the living rise to a deaf and indifferent void.
A Prayer to the Sentries of the Stars
Yet, shall we sit idle, mere puppets of fate, awaiting the stroke of doom? Nay! The watchers of the heavens, those sentinels of the night, toil in their ceaseless vigil. They craft their engines of defiance, their stratagems of salvation, that we might yet turn aside the scythe poised above our necks. But can they truly stand against the forces that shaped the stars, that carved the abyss, that flung the planets into their ceaseless waltz?
Aye, let us hope! Let us look upon their efforts not with idle complacency but with the grim resolve of those who know that their days are ever numbered, that the abyss yawns ever beneath their feet. Let us not be found wanting when the hour of reckoning tolls. For whether by fire from the void or by the slow decay of time, the end comes for all—be it now or a thousand years hence.
And so, let us pray that when the heavens do speak, they whisper mercy and not ruin. But if ruin be our fate, then let us meet it not with trembling hearts, but with defiant voices raised against the storm, as the raven perched upon the bust of Pallas ever whispers: Nevermore.
