A gale tramples over fallen doors,
And desperate faces cling to a quivering flame, yet
No wall can reach their shadows.

I stand there  shuddering with each lash
from the ice beyond the hearth,
A slow trickle from its toil dyeing the rubble at our feet. But still
No heads turns to face the dark.

I only know every spark withers and dies as it drifts from our circle, though the brightest voyage furthest into the night.
Looking beyond I am neither trapped nor free, but destitue
It is not resolve, courage, or despair that now turn me; I am lulled and must wake.

All thoughts deceive. Thoughts of men inspired, of gods deranged, echo in me,
And which is worse I do not know.

So tonight I will follow the sparks into gale,
Let the lash scour my ears of every voice,
And hope no man foolish enough to follow.