You say that you miss the taste
Of sweet nectar on your tongue.
You also say that you thought it out,
And that you aren't so very young.

Yet you, my dearest Lenie,
Are not even half my age!
How can you speak of wisdom
As if you were some great sage?

I can vow that I wont choose
The path that you all walk
Knowledge is Power but ACTION is too
And all you seem to do is talk.

Bloodborn are as Bloodborn do.
To that I can and shall agree
But giving up your fangs and nights
Smacks to my wisely mind of greed

These "rituals" you speak of...
How, by Niuri, can they compare
To driving my fangs into my toys neck
And curling my icy fingers in his hair?

You speak of death and speak of loss
And yet at your young years
You can't have felt the wonders and the joys
Seen through Consanguinic tears

You see, Dear Lenie, I have had
More than a score of years to think
On changes, regret and what I've done wrong
With blood as my meat and drink.

So when you walk along this road,
And you've 20 years of fangs
You wouldn't EVER give them up
For some ritualistic rabble-gangs

So my dearest Lenie,
I now leave you with your choice.
In 20 years you'll know regret,
And then I'll hear your voice.

Duchess Auvira Gravz Amaratha, Mystery's Poet

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Arios, in the year 139 MA.