The sun echoes into the reaches

of the cold mountain depths

where the cry of the deer is drowned

out by the screams of the dark-winged

creatures of the night; they reach

into the bosom of death and pull forth

the beating heart, the crimson beating heart,

about to burst; its all ink and blood,

scrawling the history of a darkness foretold;

Don't tread upon the mountains, lest

you wish for the sweet embrace of death.