These lips are not your lips but I
can sense your unfamiliar warmth
with every bitter, useless breath.

These hands are not your hands but I
can nearly feel a pulse beneath
the silent motionless of death.

The month is long, the sun is down:
where river bends the shadowed hills
oh come, please come, come now, I wait
and it's almost the twentieth.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Arios, in the year 285 MA.