Scanning through the words on page,

They form ideas not of this age,

Of smoke and fire and thunderous spells,

Divined from beasts of all nine hells,

The words are of a tongue from long ago,

That tell a tale I should not know,

Of sweeping plains under blackest moon,

Overlooking demons on bone white dunes,

My eyes fill with sights that are not mine,

The table in the library has become a shrine,

Screams burst from the chest that belongs to me,

They bind my hands for their gods to see,

You must believe this is not my life,

But someone else’s curse and strife,

Across all time and back in my age,

There sits one in my skin, their hands on my page