When The Black And Mortal

When A Man Dies, Flesh Is Frayed And Broken In The Fire, But Not His Will.

Be It Mine To Draw From Wisdom's Fount, Pure As It Flows, That Calm Of Soul Which Virtue Only Knows.

Of All The Gods, Death Only Craves Not Gifts: Nor Sacrifice, Nor Yet Drink-offering Poured Avails; No Altars Hath He, Nor Is Soothed By Hymns Of Praise. From Him Alone Of All The Powers Of Heaven Persuasion Holds Aloof.

Obedience, You Know, Is Good Luck's Mother, Wedded To Salvation, They Say.

Wrong Must Not Win By Technicalities.