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: It was only the wind, my dear.
: What shall I sing to my lord from my window? What shall I sing for my lord will not stay? What shall I sing for my lord will not listen? Where shall I go when my lord is away? Whom shall I love when the moon is arisen? Gone is my lord and the grave is his prison. What shall I say when my lord comes a calling? What shall I say when he knocks on my door? What shall I say when his feet enter softly? Leaving the marks of his grave on my floor. Enter my lord. Come from your prison. Come from your grave, for the moon is a risen. Welcome, my lord.
: Darkness is a shroud to cover. Miles
: Darkness is the cloak, beware. Flora
: We do not fear the vast of blackness. Miles
: We wear shadows in our hair. Flora
: Darkness calls us to a reckoning. Miles
: Call us to its close embrace. Flora
: We shall soon be there to meet it. Miles
: Though we cannot see its face. Flora
: In the dark, the raid of the ghost. Miles
: And the coffin cannot hold. Flora
: Those of us who love the darkness. Miles
: Darkness is our final throne.