A strait in your age, your furor melded with the dying beggar, the defeated battle, Weary body, barren heart, tempestuous mind, whispering tales of doomed fate. Like a cottage ravaged by blight, those loneliest nights seem crueler than ruin. In the tempest of dreams, in a weary room of dissonance, I recline, fragilely. Bound by undeniable fate, trembling feet falter, with nothing to fear as death draws near. Pale eyes, pale lips—like a soul departing, yet the tired body remains. The pitch-black night swallows the bleeding of these silent emotions, unseen. And you do not cry—for the dawn creeps near, Where blood turns to blessings in the light’s soft embrace, Though its warmth feels as distant as death itself.