Black water holds the tower's light. We hold the shore below. He sat his blood down at his board, he filled the cups himself. Sweet drink beneath a host's own roof, the old law at the door. He left the dead without their fire. He gave the deed a name. What never met the fire learned to move without a name. It climbs up from the low ground. It remembers where he eats. Cruel ruler, what you fed comes home to feed. Cruel ruler, the height was never yours to keep. Now the wall gives up its footing, now the stair gives up its lord. The gnawed stone falls in torchlight and nobody looks away. He bars the door from his own side. The bar tells us he knew. One floor between him and the sky, and the height is running out. Small mouths at the door. No hurry in the dark. He called the deed a quiet word. The quiet's on the stair. Cruel ruler, what you fed comes home to feed. Cruel ruler, the height was never yours to keep. The high light gutters once. The shore forgets its voice. Every hand around me raised and open. Mine stay shut at my sides. The light goes out the way a word goes when breath is taken back. The shore stays quiet. Somebody has to say it. Cruel ruler, what you fed comes home to feed. Cruel ruler, the height was never yours to keep. The tower keeps its footing. The bar still holds the door. Black water holds one light the less. The name is still out here.
