New bodies strewn across the land,
and I’m alone, listening to their cries.
Their battles tore open the skies,
spreading the mist and flurried snows.
The wind whips at my wineglass,
it tips, but nothings left.
The wind sucks the air away,
My fire feels the theft.
I hear tempered whispers of the past,
while I sit alone in the cold.
My sorrows can’t be written,
nor can they be told.