The view I see through Raistlin-tailored eyes,
The heated wind which blows o'er the mundane,
My world! The stool for flitting maggot-flies
That snow the smouldered, blackened terrain.
For day and night (or can you tell here?)
I pray for amnesty, for deliverance.
Yet sangre skies bear down and do defy
And mock. Move on! The wind is like a lance
In my side, so sharp its sighs. Oh, Grendel!
Lonely is your way! Distraught, you wander
Your pitiless hell held in Lucifer's
Thou speaketh language that they all may hear,
And yet the words fall deaf upon their ear.