| This sword, drawn, now rives this transient harrowing annum asunder in twain. Like as if a Voice spoke, something surrounding suddenly broke. Bitterness brittle crumbles like sand and like sand through fingers slips away, carried off by a Conquering Wind (His). Suddenly it all seems so pointless, this rabid struggle to cling to chains and retain bondage; so hollow, so empty, even in some respects, so contrived. This eye grows weary of being fed its tiresome lines and having its every move choreographed... |