He scribbles his soul — though it won’t reach,
But hope clings on, like an endless leech.
Words take form — and the echoes flood,
With void and sorrow in his blood.

He’s no pious fool nor mortal saint;
Knows no pen can erase, and no ink could paint
The echoes back then, nor the ones he’ll miss —
Yet they must be paged, before the reaper’s kiss

- Niko Randeni