In shadow views of battle yet to be
the final stranger beckons me. I fear
that I must now accept what I forsee;
the moment of my death is drawing near.
Oh sarah, how I want to see your face,
to touch, once more, the softness of your skin.
Though fate is sealed and destiny in place,
I long to hear your gentle voice again.
If it is true that spriits conquer death
then I will yet return to you somehow.
The winds that cool your skin shall be my breath,
my tears the gentle raindrops on your brow.
I pray you, Sarah, do no mourn me dead...
think I am gone to wait for you instead.
