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What will I be, just an old dragonborn,
If I sit by the fire and give in to its warmth?
My old bones will grow brittle,
My skills unrefining,
I’m beginning to forget
My warrior’s worth.
What will I be, when the voices do find me,
Cruel echoes of memory of those that I’ve lost?
Like daggers they pierce me,
I’m too undeserving,
I drink to forget it,
No matter the cost.
What will I be, the scorpion’s daughter,
Burning with rage and surviving by stealth?
To kill all those like me,
Poor beasts, undeserving,
As my axe finds their marrow,
Am I killing myself?
What will I be, an exile from paradise?
Trapped in this drudgery that people call home?
How did I get here,
Enchained in this marrow?
And worse, if I die here,
Will I ever know?
What will I be, when the mask’s finally lifted?
How can they love me when there’s so much to hate?
Through secrecy, safety.
I don’t want to die here.
I can’t let them see me.
It isn’t my fate, so
What will I be?
I wonder what’s for breakfast?
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