The wisp of a lantern ceases,
Held captive in a gloved hand,
Shaking in the trembling of an arm,
The call is made.
Come running, oh, beasts,
Turn the tides around,
Tear the rufiant's cloak,
Bite me, beligerant fools.
Chase the embers and
Give heed to terror,
Seek the running man,
Destroy that noise!
And beneath the facade
Glass most vibrant shatters
With a ringing of posthumous sense,
Alas, i cannot run anymore.
For whom escapes
The dire darkness
But with the faint glimmer
Of the dying light?
