• Hanging in the balance 'tween knowing and not,
    He wracks his brain and lets it turn to twisted, burning rot.

    He envies that which which does think not,
    For it has seen all it has sought.

    Cursed by the gifts of the child, at dusk,
    The corpse becomes a blackened husk.

    He asks above all that you do not fear,
    Though he, above all, is devoured by fear.

    He curses the Guardians, curses himself,
    And spits at the hatred he keeps on his shelf.

    He damns the quest for the noblest of things,
    Free beneath freedom, a bird without wings.