Every eve of my birth, the aura is that of death. For me to be haunted or for me to taunted. These questions I ask myself. Did death sense I would forget in a hurry, how he stole a gem?
Every eve of my birth the aura is that of death. Do I deem it fit to use my blood, would it be enough to ink my paean, could it be enough to relief my pain? The grips was lost after a fierce ruck, then he went home with his rare loot.
Every eve of my birth the aura is that of death. The eve of my separates life and death.