The stars themselves all lonely die
and as they do bring dark to sky
as in that grave I rest my head
your dream come true — if I be dead
And not to Ynys Afallach
where Brenin Arthur would come back
no Morgan waits to heal these wounds
no fey voices there to croon
Thus — in the dying of the light
Reflected in your cold blue eyes
Collapse into this rotted blight
Whence all your words proved to be lies
And if my leaving brings you peace
Then let this senseless breathing cease
