A dying fawn laughs And a new night comes To each their own, but I Was led my the fleeting bliss of youth A hearth lay empty Cold and flickering Waiting for a traveler to gather it Up into his arms The flight of those once made sacred A waste of futile existence Why tend to the flock if they all die anyways? From the calmest days, Shall you lead an uneasy kayak through the harshest storms And for you to rest only enrages her more Who am I to ease my suffering? To writhe in the snare, To carve marks into the bone Shall only appease the hunter more Or does it pity him, that he would starve without you Alas, the fawn slowly withers But not without the joyful weeping Of Saturn's rotten hand