There's nothing I can hold against you, there's almost a sternness in your voice strengthening your steadfastness, your eyes if they wished could rail against light travellers. Your own Mother who you asundered, to supple perpetual altercation. Dark, dark your hair will seek accord The Ocra fields were you played casts forth a margin of your secrets. I pray our grave court blinded by yourΒ Β wonders, serpentine and whistles at the stroke of midnight, whose union will shed the growing embers