|
|
| From | Message |
|---|
|
... with eyes closed
|
|
, tempting our minds
|
|
... with tears dripping
|
|
, fearing the Hand
|
|
who is preparing
|
|
... the last meal.
|
|
big
eyes
beseeching
|
|
her very name
|
|
... alarming and disarming
|
|
mouth
of bliss
|
|
killed more than
|
|
... one. But who ...
|
|
wouldn't
die
so!
|
|
... maybe the grave ...
|
|
is not forever?
|
|
Even the less
|
|
angry Semuid was
|
|
... now bleeding profusely
|
|
.
Plumes drift menacingly
|
|
into the Kingdom
|
|
... black-bottomed, looming, cold ...
|
|
flying caskets from
|
|
the surrounding skies
|
|
Bronze, Silver, Gold
|
|
... satin-laden, open, empty ...
|
|
for a glamorous
|
|
comet
ride
away.
|
|
The Albaerians queued
|
|
patiently for days
|
|
... heads pointed upwards ...
|
|
|
