Had footsteps followed the path of sleeping men,
Bound to comfort, blind to soul, content within the kennel,
Life might have passed in soft, untroubled grace—
No mirror held to the psyche,
No voice to question where or when.

But unknown are carved by fire, not fate,
Cast to leave a mark—through affinity or animosity.
The journey twists through pain and ash,
Where silence breaks, and masks are torn—
And none retain the soul they bore

For even the strong may come to loathe
The face that rises when the fire goes cold.

- Niko Randeni