On a hill beside a shimmering river, there stands a manor. Its walls are high and inside there stands a giant hall, gilded with gold and plastered with glistening paint. Around the hall stand numerous small houses and three long barracks built of black brick with cracked windows.
One snowy evening I could see a doctor with his horse and a carriage storm into the manor, and men rode to the gates of the manor for news of its lord. Sir Medlon Kellan died on that cold January night, and his wife left the manor in the hands of their eldest son. That morning, a wounded sun rose—scarlet like a scar running across the sky, and the manor drank the blood of the sun.
the manor drank the blood of the sun.
inside there stands a giant hall
Around the hall stand numerous small houses
One snowy evening I could see a doctor
That morning, a wounded sun rose—scarlet like a scar running across the sky, and the manor drank the blood of the sun.
In the shadow of the city, there stands a gate
Dust. Blood. Glass.
This is our confession.
Its walls are high and inside there stands a giant hall,
to be clean and white like the clouds that barely shadowed a sun.
That morning, a wounded sun rose—scarlet like a scar running across the sky, and the manor drank the blood of the sun.
I'm going to go read Caibidil a Haon!
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