Your fear is as a shackle, gripping still,
Binding with rusty chains of faith and pride;
Once blind for Growth, now sightless to your will
To find that Truth your Purity would hide.
Your reason, the defender of your faith,
Has fled your mind, as you have fled the fight --
Drifting in dreams, your strengths have gone to waste,
Supplanted by grand plans and hollow might.
Turn back and battle if redemption's sought -
Through pain and hardship, spirit meets the mind -
Defend the cause of Good your ilk has wrought
Or flee again and leave your Truth behind.
For I have seen you fight and felt your fire;
This cold, spent ash is nothing to admire.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Phaestian, in the year 794 AF.