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Silhouettes in the thick fog

Are they approaching, or are they receding

I am paralysed with fear

And yet I want them to draw near

Beacons of hope

The voice of the jester

Ever so outspoken, is silent now

The everlasting minutes of stillness

Of waiting for them to draw on

I'm holding onto my sword

With sweaty, shaking hands

When they come, I know

I won't be able to take a swing