Worry not of our end.
If we are doomed anyway,
Let's go out in style.

Unshackled, I walk,

No longer running from fate.

The future is mine.

Look out to the east
A star rises from its sleep
Morning approaches

Unworthy to sin,

Begging for just one last touch, 

Just one gentle word. 

Frost chilled air wanders

Streets glow in lamp lit quiet

life sleeps, winter wakes