Dearest Unholy, thy hast become
an enigma of sorrows in sin-filled purulence;
decaying with each tear of hollow farewells!

What brings thou before me, amidst the
waning moon?

Prithee answer:

Was it in caprice, or dost thine oracle
bleed red with grief?

Dost star-death over gates of white
ponder the loss of thine soul?

Rhetoric! Aroint!

I need not ponder thine mortal frailty.