Aoide, What My Life Cannot Confirm Will My Death Deny

In this subtle light the lakes and streams entwining shadows sparring round the moon, a single beam is cast upon these ruins, ancient songs of men enshrining, echoes sounding from the hills of all thy lovers past; "Be I not thy first to love be I then thy last." The fields are grey, all is gone, save this lone desire to place my lips on thy cold brow lying in this cask; to hear thy voice, know thy lips circling me in fire clawing at the marble slate my echo rising higher. Is it love or madness that holds me in this spell, what my life cannot confirm, will my death deny? In my simple lines of verse does a sadness dwell, joy is a visceral state does not reason why? As I ponder on my fate, did I hear thee sigh? If my words have any poise, any charms to sell rise up from thy barren tomb, open up thine eyes! The echoes cease with a breath, breathe deep and expel, we shall claim this gladsome earth where gods and men rebel.