The howling of their chase died down behind us,
But our determined footsteps would not cease.
Both hearts beat with the wild tune of the hunt
But with it, the slow melody of mourning.
Dried blood peeled from our bodies, its odor
Leaving behind a deathly trail of decay.
No force imaginable could hinder us;
If Fate himself willed it, we would make him run.
With our hands forever interlocked,
We ran not unlike a young couple
Eloping from the grasp of a tyrant
Who could not understand the
Of a childhood