A burning hatred, festering inside, a lost love found once more.
But with a wavering glance and ripple in time, all is lost, as before.
I've shed my tears, I've thrown my tantrums, I've been befallen with my
rage.
Yet all I've gained throughout my sorrows are but experience and age.

I mourn, I weep, I bury my heart in snow.
For I can trust few now, neither friend nor foe.
A ripping grief is like the tide, coming regularly with the moon.
Considering suicide, is it civilized, might this end so soon?

I think, of course not, no, never, not within my life.
Yet I am still torn with grief, for in the land is great strife.
Could never silence be gained? Never peace be won?
So many battles are fought and lost, between the rising and setting of
the sun.

Never a sparkle, never a ripple, never a rift in this sorrow.
I may hold on, to see the future, to see what comes of the 'morrow.
My heart beats not, my eyes see little, and my mind is plagued with
rage.
For in this simplicity I am contained, my own mental barrier and cage.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Lanosian, in the year 142 MA.