Silver threads spun by spiders
With tears of morning on the precious lines,
Against the sun soon to set,
The steady flowing rivers clear her mind.
Ah, Mathahnus, you are ice.
Your words are the burn that pretends to be heat.
Though it feels like touching flames,
You see through the feeling and know the deceit.
Leaves of gold wave under brilliant skies,
Until the clouds gather in their hatred of life.
Then decay sets in to brown the edges,
And life is extinguished like a throat and a knife.
Ah, Mathahnus, you are night.
With all the heavens trying to destroy your shadows,
With all the stars to fill you,
For everyone to see, you're still left dark and hollow.
Will the sun, the light of hope, come again?
Sometimes for dark dwelling creatures it is hard to believe.
The black and despair are so consuming
That light seems to wither before its touch while all hope leaves.
