|
The view I see through Raistlin-tailored eyes,
The heated wind which blows o'er the mundane,
My world! The stool for flitting maggot-flies
That snow the smouldered, blackened terrain.
For day and night (or can you tell here?)
I pray for amnesty, for deliverance.
Yet sangre skies bear down and do defy
And mock. Move on! The wind is like a lance
In my side, so sharp its sighs. Oh, Grendel!
Lonely is your way! Distraught, you wander
Your pitiless hell held in Lucifer's
Ill-facitious sway.
Thou speaketh language that they all may hear,
And yet the words fall deaf upon their ear.
|
