And there is the glisten, like wet stone and glass
Here is the claw on the hearth
Just hear the whisper, the tail in the grass
The cool where once there was warmth

There is always a touch, just before falling
A shining cold kiss in the night
And sometimes the hush of a cold blooded calling
The love in the razor, the bite

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Sarapin, in the year 312 AF.