It was a mild day in the middle of the summer, not the type that glued your shirt to your back, but the type where the soft spoken wind whistled easy, breezy tunes if you weren’t too busy to listen. Me, being a kid, I was never busy.

Bony hands,

What do they do?

They play at dice

And with whom?

A promoted demon

Who wants my soul

And they tell him,

Bony hands,

He can have it all!

Of melted glass

And broken waters

A dragon’s eye

And burning fire.

Of icy crystal

And howling wind

A dragon’s claws

And beating wings.

Vert émeraude est ton œil

Et son reflet dans ce lac de glace

Où miroitent tes émotions

Si calmes.

Rouge sang est ta griffe

Et son ombre avant qu’elle ne tombe

Pour s’ancrer dans la chair

De tes ennemis.