When darkness falls he raises his head.

He's free, not a servant of the light.

He ventures to paths no-one has tread,

Keeping the night obscure and bright.

Is there a reason for irony such as this?

He thinks so; he is bound by blood and bond.

Without some wild force to hold him back he wouldn't exist.

His cries are futile. No voice will respond.

When the sun rises he is prisoner again.

It is the night that binds him fast to the thick black.

He takes up the cruel manacle and the cold, hard chain.

When darkness falls he will return to the attack.

He is the master of death.

Revolution.

War.

Desolation.

Night.