I am known

in the religion of age.

Worship me as a pool

of blood in your hands.

Drink me deep.

It’s bitter fury

that boils and burns.

Your knives were small

but they were many.

I am named

in the religion of rage.

Worship me with your

offhand cuts

long after I am dead.

It’s a song of dreams

crumbled to ashes.

Your wants overflowed

but now gape empty.

I am drowned

in the religion of rage.

Worship me unto

death and down

to a pile of bones.

The purest book

is the one never opened.

No needs left unfulfilled

on the cold, sacred day.

I am found

in the religion of rage.

Worship me in a

stream of curses.

This fool had faith

and in dreams he wept.

But we walk a desert

rocked by accusations,

where no man starves

with hate in his bones.

Poet’s Night i.iv

The Malazan Book of the Fallen

Fisher kel Tath