Care not the stanza, care not the Harp. I sing my hymn now, only through sword, steel and cannon. By Blades descent and by Hail from Arrows do I now come; to collect what is mine, the inspiration I seek. To find a cause, to find a reason, to continue the plight and spread sour most blight upon this world. To War I am call, and by war I spread disease, only to return again, and bring now the false peace. For it lies between words, the spaces in between; that all writers cherish, a simple colon that bleeds pause; as words be read. Sired and spawned by strife, only by Pen can the Blade be put to Death.