Tired seeds in
tension of the
water,

dreams of the
Forest, flaunted in
Summer,

Fallen to drift
upon the bathing
pond.


War-fated soul
washes soil of the
march

Trying to scrub
the blood of coming
strife

Measures in drops
time until sword is
drawn.

Fire lays waste
to the green and quick
land

Set by reckless
warring, ruin
prevails

Save,

for the seeds in
cradle of ash-sown
clay.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Phaestian, in the year 586 AF.