Wanderers,
clothed in bloody white; dead people of the mist
Tear-streaked,
they walk alone
Ripped, yet
whole, none understands
The pain that
they suffer, no one understand
The heartache
of bonds broken, of half-death, of ruin
Why do they
remain? Shadows of what they were
To grasp so
dearly to the tormentor called Life
Death is a
blessing; the shadows hold love
Yet they keep
far away, their torture unending
Hollows sunken
out of bright eyes
Duty holds them
back, yet joyous no more
Service to
kingdom, fealty to King
They long to
see the end of their long, harsh road
Walking through
Haven's Gates, towards the destination
Bringing their
message of death and of war
Finally in the Grove
they lie, knife at their breast
Gently it
slides; sending them into night's embrace.