My whispers and my shouts are lost in the wind. My light and angered steps have been swallowed by the cold ground on which I have tread. My fall was a silent one. Now, I hastily scuttle across as nothing more than a poison-tongued crawler. It is a pure, paradisaical, parasite that live where I was. It will burn and boil me until the day that I put it back where it belongs, inside the death that created it. They, who let my whispers get lost and my steps swallowed, have gone to rest, and I plan...I plan to put out this perfection tonight, and tonight will shimmer on on this mountain of the dead, and the eyes of the bravest will look onto me in fearful admiration.