Book of sins

.

There’s a leather-bound book somewhere in this world or the next

Where in gracious letters of dark red blood or gleaming gold

Are written all the things I’ve done since the day I was born

All the sins I have committed and all the oaths betrayed,

And there, on the final page, as the end is being drawn

Lies in a single word my fate, so dark and so painful.

I am no saint, ’tis the truth, and never have I been hexed,

I am no brave white knight like those in the stories of old,

Nothing but pure evil, monster full of hate, full of scorn!

My destiny was accursed for from the path I had strayed

Into the twisted old shadows long before my first dawn,

Never before had the world seen existence so baneful.

.

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