Thief. You steal into the supple night
To pick and plunder. Shadows split,
Perhaps you deal in your own light.
Rune or sortilege? That is it!

I dream. Must be, for now the bland,
Prostrated body commands no vigil,
Allows the treacherous, craven hand
To rip a heart out by dark sigil.

Mine! Pitted, jet like eyes of raven
Is now this chest that aches, so dry.
She has the beat with her, my fair maiden.
I let her in to live. Now I die.