Fithteen Black Birds fly by her window, as she lays upon the desk, her head limp in her hands. Her tears flow freely down her cheeks, as her blonde hair lays tussled, yet beautiful, at her side. All hope of love has faded from her mind, as cold waves seem to crash upon her aching heart. And he still lies unmoving, his hand upon the hilt of his sword, the other a frail fist as the wind blows his hair. No heart beats in his chest, no blood flows through his veins. And so she weeps salted tears, as the world around her freezes and withers, and carries her away into the twilight yonder, seldom to be heard again, as she is carried away in acquiescence...
