Ah, whispering wind... speak your secrets and my beak shall cry out in song to deliver the riddle. I am your musician, with but a fiddle to lure sheep to fire. Heat causing them to sweat... But alas, they won't let me shave their wool. So I left them in puddles of blood. I became a wolf, no longer a saint... Paint covers the walls with a shade of crimson: My disease to please wandering eyes, looking down from the skies. Each lamb dies... Every soul tries only to fail and wail in horror as I curse them, spitting phlegm in their face: The mark of cain. Black rain has descended my brush rusted, dull father, is your stomach full?