He sees my thoughts
- A madman cried
He reads my dreams
And dwells inside
He’s always watching
Ever – wake
He combs the soul with chiding rake
The madness shattered reason’s guard
Like venom mixed with subtle art
He had his prison built of bone
For he can never be alone
As strands of hair fell in place
She raised a darkened, troubled face
The clouds covered crimson sun
We ride to war – cried out the khan
Across horizon riders spread
Divine Temujin was at head
The greatest force the world had seen
Beside the khan, his impious queen.
She cursed her eyes that made her see
As pagans reign and kinsmen flee.
Abbot heaved a loud sigh as he rose from a tiny wooden table at the west corner of the dimly lit scriptorium. His back ached mercilessly from hours spent bent over the freshly lettered manuscript pages. But today, the pain was the last thing on his mind. He caught the rascal! For the last six months, the abbot harbored a terrible suspicion, that one of the scribes was literate. The vile implications of this possibility were too much to bear, and he effetely tried to shield himself from believing, but day after day, zealously leafed through piles of manuscripts for mistakes that only a literate man can make.
Vendémiaire was nearing its end, and Sanson’s blade began to tire and slow down. A young man tiptoed out of the humble sanctuary in the dusty attic above an old abandoned house, which he hasn’t left in two weeks. The boy that usually brought him food has not showed up, and fresh linens were coming to an end. The man skimmed quickly over the roof and landed on a narrow empty street. Forcing himself not to look at the lampposts, he briskly walked towards a small hovel, and disappeared in the passage.
- So wrote St. Just, president of the Convention for the Month of Ventôse, Citizen of the Rupublic.