The view I see through Raistlin-tailored eyes, The heated wind which blows o'er the mundane, My world! The stool for flitting maggot-flies That snow the smouldered, blackened terrain. For day and night (or can you tell here?) I pray for amnesty, for deliverance. Yet sangre skies bear down and do defy And mock. Move on! The wind is like a lance In my side, so sharp its sighs. Oh, Grendel! Lonely is your way! Distraught, you wander Your pitiless hell held in Lucifer's Ill-facitious sway. Thou speaketh language that they all may hear, And yet the words fall deaf upon their ear.
