To the tree that rest on its history
Will have its blood wasted
No good can happen to things with their horcrux not visible to perceive
She the young that could only give me gains and symphony of life I believe
But it was a boring woman, unbearable but a goblet of my mysteries
No wonder I saw the goblet burning with flames and no word but sounds of injustice she screamed
I saw the tree black and wounded so thought I of the lady
I asked the dying soul"what happens to your shed once blacked out"
She with no feeling to despair said"you shall be obsessed with the
idea for a fornite but no justice will we receive"
