I miss the smell of home, the walls are empty,
The hearth is cold...
The lust is ashes
My heart only craves the points of the swords, not rage, not sorrow
I can't hear the feathery steps..that smiling river
My only pleasure is death and it cant come wither
What curse killed that kindling warmth
What human folly
What has been undone can be back jolly?
The only soothing sound is my armor, clashing
In a desperate run of whimsical crave
What now, what never ..could I answer more
or should leave for time to reveal its lore?
