If I were dead tomorrow,
Your heart would skip no beat;
You’d not be full of sorrow,
But full of joy and heat.

If I were dead tomorrow,
You’d sit out in the sun;
No tears would ever follow,
If I were so undone.

I loved you like no other,
My heart now cold and hollow;
For you would never bother
If I were dead tomorrow.

From the Lost Notes of the Deep Dweller’s Shipyard [New Fragment #6/Till Death Do Us Part]

Please never ask me how I keep going. I have no idea how – or even why, for that matter. All I know is this: The shadows will never tire of chasing me, and there is no long-term escape. Just now they are closing in on me again, as I stumble and sputter along the well-trodden path, bound for another fall. I can feel them everywhere, in the glaring sun as well as in the pale moonlight. The space to manœvre, or even move at all, decreases rapidly with each step and with each breath I take. I desperately clasp every little bit of happiness I have managed to get a hold on and tack on to my heart. Yet there is not a hope in hell when the time comes for the shadows to engulf me. And they will feast upon me, eagerly and mercilessly devouring whatever I may naively have believed to be mine to keep, from the fondest memories to the most intense feelings of love still lingering. Finally, they will leave me alone in the dark to rot for two eternities. Alas, they need my repeated suffering to nourish them, and so they will leave the seeds of false hope to be betrayed to grow another tree of life from within the despair-infested grounds. For where death would be the only true companion, only emptiness awaits to corrupt the very essence of my being. May the day that death do us part come soon.


To you, I am just Sinon
Lying on the beach of Troy,
Lying to your very face
In Athene’s name.

Yet I have neither horse
Nor story of a sacrifice
To tell in shady words
In order to deceive you.

There is only Odysseus
Standing at your gates
Who would traverse the underworld
A dozen times to find you.


It was a sun-lit morning in early spring,
When the stars and the moon aligned well.
The birds had foreseen your arrival,
My darling, my beloved, the only one I would ever have.

But the winds turned against me,
And their lovely tune turned into a howling.
I now wear the shadows of night in my eyes,
For the cold of winter ate my soul.

Now I long for the ferry
to carry me over to the land of the dead.
I realize that my wish has been granted,
For I have been its helmsman for a very long time.

Clearly inspired by ‘Bríd Óg Ní Mháille’, I intended to write this in Gaeilge. Since I only have a very rudimentary understanding of that language’s structure right now, however, I decided to put it on hold for the time being and instead just publish an English version. My best efforts of writing this piece in Gaeilge included the use of several online dictionaries, Wikipedia, Google Translate, and other semi-reliable sources. Besides, I do not wish any native speaker to come across this only to get the impression I were disrespecting the language or culture.


An ancient dark creeps up my back:
I feel it in the blink of rime.
Pulsating clocks of thyme, alack,
Cast ashen shadows on my spine.

The haunt of nightfall keeps awake
The broken stare of eyes long dead.
For only fate is here at stake
Where oceans turn to rivers red.

The calyx tastes of locust blood,
Engulfing numbness, deaf to blind,
This downfall sings a soothing thud,
And lays to waste this hope of mine.

An ancient dark consumes me whole:
I fade into obscurity.
It asks unfathomable toll,
I give my all, it sets me free.

Old Companions

Death, my old companion,
The road to hell is paved
With love and stone cold steel.
From millennium to millennium,
The journey to the grave
Retains its dark appeal.

And while the ground absorbs our blood,
In countless measures of despair,
All hope is buried with the flood –
The stench of death within the air.

Love, my old companion,
The road to hell is paved
With death and victories.
From millennium to millennium,
The journey of the brave
Must end in misery.

And while we are consumed by fear,
In countless measures of regret,
Just all of that which we hold dear –
Turns into that which we most fret.


There is no  ‘game’ in ‘endless’.
There is no ‘you’ in ‘I’.
If I were as relentless,
I should be nigh on shy.

An eldritch screech in silent anger,
My heart of hearts in fruitless wrath;
A thousand choirs’ piercing clangour
Arises from the sanguine cloth.

There is no ‘frame’ in ‘ruthless’.
There is no ‘I’ in ‘you’.
A story told so truthless,
It would be nigh on true.