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A drying cistern, echoes damp
the troops above with Kingly stamp.
So, here I hide in waters’ keep
while mercenaries spoil my camp.

The darkness plumbs as seconds creep
along the walls with earthen weep.
Some muffled laughter bids me wake
from smoke-filled dreams in tortured sleep.

The night draws thin, my mind to take
with visions of a pain-fired lake.
I hope they leave as sun draws height,
misguided fools of good turned fake.

In pallored beams, dry dusted light,
I’m beckoned out as barrow-wight.
Should I climb forth and hope no sight
is trained on me, the traitor’s plight?

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