I’m not sure I’m anything beyond need, without desire – a pyre ignited by the deathless, which smoulders still in blackness, as if deprived of kindling.  I’m not sure I’m anything beyond this oblivion.

I remember once what it was to be enchanted, bereft of necromancy.  Imprisoned in this necropolis, I remember the dew which glimmered upon verdant, lush fields.  I watched the dawn rise in awe, as it ignited the sky in interweaving streaks of orange and red, and spiralling coils of pink.  I sunbathed upon an iridescent tapestry of flowers, dappled by the glow of the aurora.  Bedevilled not by history, I dreamt of the infinite grandeur of the future.  I savoured the taste of the crisp, fresh air, and the fragrance of the grass, and the rustling of waterfalls as they flowed forth over the rocks and glimmered in the light. I gazed upon halcyons as they soared and glided about the heavens, cradled by the wanderings of the wind, unbridled in their flight.

I watch now, as crows circle these ruins – their wings clipped by squall, and their feathers seared away by fire.  I remember the resplendence of clear skies, as I look upon the grey of smoke and cloud and dusk.

I remember hearkening to the chorus, and knowing every word – though I had never before heard the song.  I thought neither of the cadence, nor the echoes – not of its pitch, nor its timbre.  I simply sung, entranced by this rhythm.  I screamed, and shouted, and chanted, as if no one was listening.