I circle across the ruins of my home,
I watch the lone grave of my master,
I listen to the cries of family and friends,
For there loved-ones to be buried nect to him,
Death is not something that can erase love,
I realise as I cry on the wounds,
My master would have wanted it so,
To heal those who he loved,
People, Witches, Wizards. Brave souls.
And Now it is over,
Those who I saved are well,
And those who are dead are dead.
And Finally I need not cry more.
But sit upon my masters headstone,
And sing the sorrows of our hearts.