Have you not noticed, how the blood stains don't fade?
A blade dripping such sustenance, the tool of the trade.
Perhaps you've not noticed, the clouds have gone red?
The midnight age is true, and justice is dead.

Have you not noticed, that corpses litter the ground?
And that the stench of evil, is truly all around?
You must adapt to survive, to live, to exist. You cannot give up, not
yet, not like this.
Yet you seem to understand, that the pain is overbearing, and the blade
is sharp, clenched in a fist.

If blood soaks the earth, will the plants not grow strong?
If the elegant birds die, who will sing their song?
Will it not be true, that if the red is truly blood,
that we are going to drown, like rats stuck in mud?

Love is an essence, an illusion, yet it gives us great hope.
But through it blood is shed, for one reason or other.
Just because we were too fond of another.
Yet it gives us strength in it's own cunning way,
May your Daylight be Dark, and your Dark be Day.

Truly, who shall survive?

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Chakros, in the year 108 MA.