“These Cold Hands” is a poem with very murky origins.
These Cold Hands
I've heard a tale,
Of a fountain of hope.
It's waters restore,
What we have lost.
Never have I,
Looked for its grace.
-
Please, sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Spare me, spare me,
Thy ode of demise,
He, prepares his song.
-
I grow old, and cold, cold hands,
Grasp and claw at my being.
Please sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Harbinger of all,
He waits for his yield.
-
This fountain of hope,
May it grace me with youth.
He conducts,
As his agents do play,
His, foul, ode.
-
I search, and search,
And have yet, to find it.
The Fountain of Life.
May its waters, grace me.
I grow older, still.
These cold, cold, hands.
-
He has yet to show mercy,
My soul is an ember,
For him to snuffle out.
I search beyond,
To the edges of time,
There do I find a strange spire.
-
Please, sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Spare me, spare me,
Thy ode of demise.
He, prepares his song.
-
This spire contains,
The strangest of things,
A stone, a hole bored in its core.
From this pit, this endless cavern,
Waters that shine in the sun.
I raise my hands,
To grasp this cure.
-
Please, sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Spare me, spare me,
Thy ode of demise.
He, prepares his song.
-
With a dying breath,
I lower my hands.
I sip from the glory of God.
My soul is ablaze,
The ember restored.
My being is intact,
Sir Death, I laugh.
-
It wasn't I,
Who had the last laugh,
Sir Death had been waiting,
Planning my doom.
He wanted me dead,
But I rebelled and said,
"Please, show mercy,
I've ventured so far!"
-
He shook his head,
Or so I saw.
He raised his hand,
His scythe, of shadows,
Appeared at his very whim.
With one final movement,
He pierced my being,
He harvested the ash of my soul.
-
To this, I warn thee,
Accept your fate.
Sir Death is waiting.
Oh, young boy,
Don't tempt Death.
-
Sir Death is waiting.
-
Trivia
Another possible origin for “These Cold Hands” is a supposed murder that occurred in New Ceardia. Killed by neglectful parents who allowed him to drown, a young boy supposedly made a pact with a demon as he slowly perished, returning with a mask upon his face and a thirst for blood.
The poem once inspired an Ithanian artist to paint a horrid scene of the Undead and a great ruined city. He called it “Âmes Sombres” and proceeded to sell it to a wealthy couple. Their home city was then struck with a widespread case of illness shortly after this resulting in the painting being burned.
