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.