It whispers in the wind to me,
"Quin, is your hatred pure?"
The patient hum of history,
A voice I so adore

It trembles on my lips betimes,
"There must be something more."
No answers, only riddles still,
However I implore

The lot that's given me and you,
"Please kneel down on the floor."
The lick of lash and flush of shame,
The ecstasy and gore

I've played it out a thousand times,
"From here forevermore,"
Your hand in mine, mine in the flame,
They blacken, not yet sore

A smile as skin is stripped from bone,
"Just love me, darling,
One more time,
Consume me as of yore."
But nothing comes, my throat is dust,
"Be with me, loved one,
Here at last,
Before they close the door."

But I've no time for childish games,
I spent it all before,
You ever set your lips to me,
And in so doing set it free,
It sighs like leaves ripped from the tree,
"Quin, tally up the score.
Quin, what beats in your shadowed breast?
Quin, is your hatred pure?"

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Sarapin, in the year 956 AF.