The whispering echoes of the gusty wind,
Reverberate through the mind.
The ancient song of souls once lost,
Silently caressing the spine.
What is this emptiness before my feet?
This vortex of weeping wounds.
Death is turning his hefy hour-glass,
The darkening hour looms.
Even those holding the periless knife,
The ones with shadowed hearts;
Soon they'll learn another way,
As with soul they will soon part.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Valnuary, in the year 380 AF.