The whispering night.
Tracks in the snow.
Crossing the threshold
of what we all know.
Crimson immortal
Elysian fields.
Stems of good fortunes
they've been reaping for years.
Seek words of wisdom,
spurning the lore
weavers of fate
have cast on the shore.
We seek lives of holiness,
and finding nothing in its place.
The grace of the gods.
A fire gone out
on the banks of the lands,
once so firmly devout.
A wringing of hands.
Facing the dark,
hollow, and dead,
what we know in our hearts.
Seek words of wisdom,
spurning the lore
weavers of fate
have cast on the shore.
We seek lives of holiness,
and finding nothing in its place.
