by Nick Gisburne
A cellar, in a city of decay
We sense our souls may not survive the night
No child has time for laughter, song, or play
With blood, with sharpened scraps of bone, we write
The slow, the smallest, stolen by the Fey
Before they see the glory of the dawn
Bewildered, as their essence bleeds away
Are filled and fed, to breed the fairy spawn
A plan of desperation, all we own
May turn the tide, to save what lives remain
Each rune we scratch, in darkness, onto stone
Will resurrect a spirit, snatched and slain
The fairies do not understand that we
Are not the helpless children that they see
