In silent streets, we yearn for blood;
For glory lost that once was found.
And perchance once we'd grind to dust
Filth that had trodden hallowed ground.
We raise a scalp, we raise a cheer
We'd raise our blades in fellow yell.
But perchance we'd too often fear
To raise a hand to stem the knell.
Is it an angel that we need
To guide our blades and sing our songs?
Or is the devil what we seek,
For sodden streets' where we belong?
In restless nights, I ache for dreams
Of friendships gained, of wartimes part
For when you're born to hunt all fiends,
A serpent's tongue, a knife in dark.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Lupar, in the year 823 AF.