Have you heard the rain when I cry?
It softly patters dusty ground; drops of rain and blood abound.

Like the blood, the rain is salted – strikes the earth because I faulted.

In nights of endless screaming sounds, the howling winds of terror bound.

Where am I?

Awaken in the night from fearsome toil, begs at last for cask of oil.

Pour it out, and pour it in – seek peace above the spiteful din.

I was born right in this place; it all runs down my weathered face.

Where am I?

Blood-drops, teardrops, drops of oil; the battle rages, I’m the spoil.

Forget me not, nor leave alone; I tear through waters hard as stone.

In the end it matters all; even when does glory fall.

Here am I.

Within the stonewall precipice the shouts are ended: quietness.

Within the Rock, hard and cold – I find my fill of warm, and bold.

Within the jagged razor cave: such gentle comfort maketh brave.