They played their Rondo,
the vermin gather near.
Marching to the cadence
of their blinded seers.

Strum a Canticle,
whip free your bow.
Let the moonlight of Crone
dazzle their battered bones.

Shrines may fall before their zeal,
but stars still shine through the veil.
The art of word has always been,
burned and twisted, it still contends.

The bond of love remains unbroken,
a singing moon, His word are spoken.

Look to the stars,
His poems still remain in Her arms.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Lupar, in the year 644 AF.