A poem, by Erikson.

Pray, do not speak to me of weather
Not sun, not cloud, not of the places
Where storms are born
I would not know of wind shivering the heather

Nor sleet, nor rain, nor of ancient traces
No stone grey and worn
Pray, do not regale the trouble of ill health
Not self, not kin, not of the old woman
At road’s end
I will spare no time nor in mercy yield wealth
Nor thought, nor feeling, nor shrouds woven
To tempt luck’s send
Pray, tell me of deep chasms crossed
Not left, not turned, not of the betrayals
Breeding like worms
I would you cry out your rage ‘gainst what is lost
Now strong, now to weep, now to make a fist and rail

On earth so firm
Pray, sing loud the wretched glories of love
Now pain, now drunken, now torn from all reason
In laughter and tears
I would you bargain with the fey gods above
Nor care, nor cost, nor turn of season
To wintry fears
Sing to me this and I will find you unflinching
Now knowing, now seeing, now in the face
Of the howling storm
Sing your life as if a life without ending
And your love, sun’s bright fire, on its celestial pace
To where truth is born.

|Malazan Book of the Fallen Series|
-By Steven Erikson.

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