Clip the songs from my lyre
Rip my voice out like a God
Thrash me within an inch of my unsung life
And strangle me with broken strings

I who stole from you what you held dearest
Even though you stole it first
Did I not paint in your image?
Did your chisel not give shape to mine?

You whose blood I smear upon my canvas
Whose teeth become my jewellry
Whose skin I carved my tales into
Left to dry out as I went on dancing

And we will never dance again, my lord
Never will you drag me screaming to the floor
Never again sing in tortured harmony
My wails layered over your laughter

There is an ancient rime that runs:

A single breath
From dusty clay
Will take away its death
A single tear
From loving eyes
Will quench its burning fear
A single spark
From starlight struck
Will guide it through the dark
A single stone
Hurled forth in wrath
Will break it like a bone

But you have neither death nor fear, nor dark within or brittle bones
It's why we fall in multitudes
And you, poor wretches, fade alone

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Phaestian, in the year 954 AF.