I sit in the dark,
Surrounded by distant noise,
Echoes of dead men.

In fields of grey ash,
Of broken glass and stained dreams,
Made by broken men.

I turn to dim light,
I drown in periphery,
I sing to deaf men.

This concerns you not,
My quarry is not your own,
Discard heavy task,
Ascend to vast planes untouched,
By all these silent, dead men.