"I Hate You"
[!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich
11th of Wzuvar und Byvca, 420 E.S.
Knife in my back,
All eventually goes black,
Crippled from the final smack,
I hate you, I hate you.
Pain derived from a simple blow,
The breaking of a tightly strung bow.
Stress and hurt is all you sow.
I hate you, I hate you.
Give me the salt, a rush of gloom
Give me salt, I’ll pour it on the wound.