What madness on this cold day
drew me forth to stray
far from home and hearth
and kin and place of birth?

Was it perhaps the rushing wind
that drove me forth from end to end
of Sapience, without heart nor care
for those I met, from here to there?

Was Callisto's ill in me
that made me blind and not to see
that this road under foot was one
that 'suredly would make undone

the life I had in mind for me?
Was it so difficult to see
and in vain of every plea
my mother spoke on bended knee?

Alas! These questions will remain
without answers and refrain
from bringing light for me
to find catharsis easily.

For this I hold here to my breast
is not a rat or thing of quest.
It is instead a mortal's blood
that mixes with now crimson mud.

And thus I kneel now at the flame
and place the corpse within the same
and pray the blood I spilt this way
will haunt me not another day.


Penned by my hand on the 10th of Sarapin, in the year 356 AF.