A heart is not bleeding despite the cold dagger
Plunged into its entrails for hope, if not stronger
Than the steel of the blade, can never be wronger
Than the light shadow cast by its dual stagger,
Now, as the shallow mist of the breath gets slower,
The bold and young emperor contemplates the old,
They can feel the regret in the new snow-white cold
Spreading through the ichor as withers the flower
Of this past suffering: a rose, bright red with thorns,
And roots deeper than wounds, have they made the right choice?
A death is not a death if it is only voice.
Right? They try to remain impartial from the scorns
That their predecessor inflicted on their soul
As they feel the fleeting image of the young fool…
The last unicorn may very well be dead…