Morning Strumming
of lute and lyre
Tender hearth song
of valley Home

trampled beneath
the Thunder drums
Drowned in the tide
of Battle cries

Words of peace-time
poets are lost
in the desperate
Shout of orders

Golden fields and
season crops,
precious labor
hacked and salt-sown

The good places
once beloved
are put to torch
by need of war.

A thousand dreams,
A thousand hearts
are broken by the press of pike,
stricken by the sword.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 587 AF.