The morn is filled with fire
Where do I find the ire?
Why from the land beneath where lava does flow
I, son of the dark doomed to the world of light
Yet here does the feeble Will strike in fright
Cursed and yet loved by the being: Blight
Vast are the corridors of might
hidden by Gods in their eternal fight
But still I, a mortal stuck neither here nor there, lo do I lack a foe?