Centhron
kind des wehrmuts
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Candlelight falls on the wall, covered in hot steam.
It drips onto people's hands. She smells of fresh battle.
Red dew touches the water, absinthe makes the young throat drunk.
The mirror is her vice. She only draws dirt into her soul.
A meteor shatters the night, leaving a tail of golden hair.
Worth gently waters the lips. She laughs - her eyes cold and rigid.
As the night silently welcomes her, her eyes see clearly.
What comes out of her is beautiful, just as it always was.