Four Witnesses by Conqueror's Mourn

For victors or conquered, the tolls of this war
Are seen in their faces, and heard in their cries
Not heroes or monsters, just witnesses four
All seeking the truth of a different demise

The Wailing, performing his personal grief
He shutters his losses to offer relief

The Wight, his plans thwarted, his corpus so maimed
Shall haunt like a wraith all the souls that remain

The Watcher. a child when she first lifts a sword
Sees the corpses display battle's final reward

The Weary, who lives, though a deathspell he faced,
now wanders forgotten through underground wastes

I hope you shall glean from this fate you abhor
The value of stories when glory's denied
But victor or not, in this phantasmagoria
Suffer the wounds in the depths of their minds.

In the time before death, every voice sounds the same

Every agonized breath, every choked cry of pain

Brought on by the flashes of menacing light

Or the whispers on winds that accompany night,

To die from a spell is no great source of pride

but sometimes the shame of just being alive

Is too great for your battle drunk mind to withstand -

So when death reaches for you, you smile at its hand