I have died one thousand times,

Always praying to be reborn as you;

Upon familiar floor, one thousand times,

I have damned deities for making me live as me again.

I have lived one thousand years,

Yet have only learned solitude's simplicity;

My blood, over one thousand years

Has deteriorated to a jealous ichor.

Envy runs through my veins,

Bubbles and whispers as it churns my soul,

Cries a begging plea for freedom:

How could I deny it such an innocent request?

I slice, and it shouts joyful release;

Five hundred years ago I learned not to hesitate my stroke.

My soul grabs its chance and flees,

Only to lie strewn amongst liquid debris.

I have spilled this green blood one thousand times,

But nothing ever seems to change;

With each new life, I am reawakened,

Only to stain others with green blood one thousand times more.