Conceit covers the hills like snow, sacred,
To hide your track marks, the shallow scars.
Silver threads cover your skin with hatred
Like constellations, your nameless white stars.
I can see you shiver and feel from here
The cold-hot gentility that draws me
Quaking, shaking into your luminous sphere,
Even as the wind whispers warningly.
"Shh my child," she whispers soft, carressing,
"There's devils here too beautiful to hate."
"Devils?," say I, perceptively blessing
The pulchritudinous need to create;
"To suffer, breathe life and destroy in turn,
For that which feeds the flame, also must burn."

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Haernos, in the year 138 MA.