May I shrink to dust In your cold, wild Wastes, And may my tongue speak Its last hymn to your winds. I pray for the herder That whistles to his guar at play. I pray for the hunter That stalks the white walkers. I pray for the wise one That seeks under the hill, And the wife who wishes For one last touch of her dead child's hand. I will not pray for that which I've lost When my heart springs forth From your soil, like a seed, And blossoms anew beneath tomorrow's sun.
Poem from Morrowind over 3000 years old...
[14:19:12] Konfuchie > vrati tengu da farmijem pls
P.S. Jebem mater svima onima koji su se zarad nekakvog imaginarnog uspeha u imaginarnom svetu, pogordili. Iskreno zalim ako ste se nasli u predjasnjoj recenici prozvanim, to je siguran znak da ste bolesni psihicki i mrtvi duhovno i da ne igrate igricu!