When darkness shrouds,
And the white of the angel, his white, is called grey,
He peels off that very white cloak,
And puts on a cloak, nay, armour in black, of the beast,
Glistening spear in one hand,
And no shield in the other, for he himself is,
He turns around once, before heading for war,
To look at the crumpled white cloak,
That will lay unclaimed for a while, for none can,
He then peeps into his own new armour,
And finds a persistent white strand or two,
Sticking on, stuck over his pounding heart,
Refusing to leave, refusing to desert him,
And when he asks why, they instantly say,
How, after you slay the demon, your torments you allay,
Will you go back to the cloak, if with you, we don't stay?
And the white of the angel, his white, is called grey,
He peels off that very white cloak,
And puts on a cloak, nay, armour in black, of the beast,
Glistening spear in one hand,
And no shield in the other, for he himself is,
He turns around once, before heading for war,
To look at the crumpled white cloak,
That will lay unclaimed for a while, for none can,
He then peeps into his own new armour,
And finds a persistent white strand or two,
Sticking on, stuck over his pounding heart,
Refusing to leave, refusing to desert him,
And when he asks why, they instantly say,
How, after you slay the demon, your torments you allay,
Will you go back to the cloak, if with you, we don't stay?
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