Under the trees of Stratholme

This particular piece was written as I took a stroll inside the undead-riddled streets of Stratholme, a once bustling town that has been taken over by the Scourge Plague and was forced to be culled by the one man who has crossed the most terrible threshold in all of Azeroth.

The lamentations within bear witness to my own aches as I shared the anguished cries of the living dead with my own heart's pining cries.

Under the trees of Stratholme

I sit underneath the dead trees of Stratholme
Crying my eyes out, all sad and forlorn

I see the faint light of the moon against the smoky haze
Elune, oh sweet Elune, why must you avert your gaze?

Here the dead have made their day
Yet even the living follow their way

North, East, West all bear strife
And from the center soon will be rife

Grant this desperate night elf's wish
May thy pleasant moonshine this world once again relish

It was a moment of solace that I never even managed to pay homage to Elune's temple in Darnassus just to say this prayer out loud.