The poet was born of Loneliness in the eye of a huge bloody sunset. Bleed the universe, transformed into a tear. The trouble of the weather drove him. And without friends it feels the best. - Only in the grueling premonition. Transmitted to the Winds Court - cold and deprived of sympathy. The poet, living ash in fire, cursed. His eyes are torches of unleashed flame. More hunted by a stranger than a stranger, he lives in his castle castle. And he begs mercy from the passing moments, to the future eternally focused - occasional passers-by without a person, his verse fresh they like to take. The poet was born by loneliness - Loved true to last affection. His soul is a phoenix in the ashes - He is resurrected, and with his wings he applauds.