Life is a churled death
Heart, matching silence
With stalled and foul breath
Stars looking down, survey the violence
Countless people's cries
For liberty, for life, for dying
The lie the future implies
Shows most truth in lying
Falable flesh, torniquet of dreams
Life's progeny,
In agony screams
"Lock me, rotting, in mahogany
Engraved on the top, 'What is life?'"
I tell you from outside looking through the window, it's a cycle, the
vain race's strife

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Slyphian, in the year 96 MA.