Halls of long forsaken right,

torches burn a blaze.

The moon shows not its face tonight,

It shall not show itself in this place.

Runes line the floor so cold,

A man in white echoes incantation,

here there is a story to be told,

as we line up for incineration.

In the light he speaks of nothing,

silence his every word,

In the dark he speaks of everything,

still, nothing is heard.

They line the hall with blood in their eyes,

Greedy with hate in their mind.

They pick the bones clean, relish our demise,

as they clean, the rest of our kind.