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Wanderer,
Speaketh thy name
And show the path
To where I first fled from the thirst of grievance
When the language of the ancients forever present, awakened the thought of man
That which was perceived, a mere glimpse into a reality of the conceived.

Where darkness lingers over the elder crests of mountains
Who glare upon a land deprived of all the certain shades of existence
A sonorous wind of deepest melancholy sweeps over the furrows of these jagged stone faces
Centuries old

I seek the shelter, a bough of winter evergreen, to shroud wisdom forgotten by the depraved.
I watch the night fall like a cloak over winter lands unknown.
I will conquer the utmost peaks and bring question to the sun standing on the horizon.

This realm of temporal beauty will birth the sky ablaze
As eternal depths devourer these peaks of old
and expose the cold barren plain of consciousness.
It is only through death that one shall plant the seeds of existence
within the fertility of cosmic soil.
It is here, subjected to the confines of a self-proclaimed reality, I shall lay my body to the soil. An immortal in the endless continuum of nothingness, I create the gates to oblivion.

Wanderer,
Your kingdom has fallen
to the age where the seas overflow with grievance
and over untrodden earth you shall forever ride
For he who has naught lived shall never find death.

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