The lamps are dimmed in Midnight
And flags fly at half-mast
The lords and ladies bow their heads
And weep for life that’s passed.

The Dwarves, the Fey, the Foul too
Come to the Lake of Dreams
Their torches light the water’s verge;
The purple water gleams.

The sun sets red beyond the peaks
And washes them with gold;
The pines are splashed with crimson-bronze,
The very air says, “Hold.”

For now a nameless Midnight man,
Steps forward, strings his bow;
A cloth yard arrow drawn to ear,
Is spanned and then let go.

The arrow arcs across the lake,
The sun dips from the sky,
The arrow slips into the depths
And all the mourners sigh,

As night comes down on Midnight,
And light is clad in dark,
The mourners all unfurl their flags
In empathy for Mark.