Or of surviving ghosts. This withering breath
Of words is the beginning of decay
In truth, when truth grows cold and pines away
Among the ancestral images. Your eyes
First see her dead: and more, the more she dies.
19
“You are still dreaming, dreams you shall forget
When you have cast your fetters, far from here.
Go forth, the journey is not ended yet.
You have seen Dymer dead and on the bier