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Comments about Landred Vhael
While Death Sits At The Window-Sill
Gloomy night has come and gone,
the moments, hushed, where once they wailed;
a hooded figure sits at my side,
with scythe in hand, intentions veiled.
The image of the crescent moon
is in the dream of that dread blade,
his amber gaze is fearsome cold -
a wish to make all things fade.
My silent guest in midnight's garb,
sprawls at the window-sill and waits,
and a little black-bird comes to him,
and in those ghosts, I see my fate.
The hooded will not rush to me,
but the winged one will hear my pleas,
both life and death ...