An envelope of night is closed upon the letter of my life.
Sealed upon that script writ in blood of days gone by,
Calligraphy of text penned by the divine.
Who will hear the lyric of our final rhyme?
This parchment holding all my earthly time, a story or a tragedy, no Oracle will give sign.
The wax of fate pressed upon the seam, one cannot open, or return to pages once been seen.
What I scribed onto the scroll of my tale is done,
Each script forever set with the dipping of that days mellow sun.