What eyes are these that see
The pain I know in my intermost soul?
What eyes are these that see
The twisted strides of my kindred,
Led on in the wake of toys unbridled:
Arrow, Bolt, and Sword tip?
Yours... aye, yours,
Straight run and muscled spring,
Soft on padded paws, sheathed claws,
Weapons rested for their need,
Stained not by frivolous blood
Or murderous deceit.
Face to face, my mirror;
Reflection in a still pool by light.
Would that I might keep that image
Upon this face of mine own.
Would that I keep that heart
Within my breast untainted.
Hold tight to the proud honor of your spirit,
Mighty Guenhwyvar,
And hold tight to my side,
My dearest friend.
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nicaokitris
micadoshicaro
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