A Poem to the Wraith
O wraith, blooming out of black justice,
cold Fury held in melded iron
deep gilded sheen swallowed by old leather.
Haunting Lord, your furs had a better life,
not living for grief or vengeance.
No justice can cure your love.
Justicar, o dear pariah,
do you mock the strength of men?
New steel swords fail to stop you,
young soldiers bicker o’er legends
of your immortality.
My dear wraith of Fienna.