Leaden sky in what binds me to what enigma she holds on my heart. I’ve not the towers to see, none the battlements, the trenches, the vassals to call to arms. I’ve but what I have, for all that I have. Empty halls that chase her phantom. The cold of air that begs for her warmth. Each night, as if the darkness creeps from what moors lay beyond. Lightless without her hand in mine, sightless as if I am blind. That inky curtain descends for one last call, but it seems never her voice that beckons for sleep and dream.