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.

Of rosy quartz
And hematite
A dragon’s heart
And lasting night.

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.