Of twisted love sprung wrath's flame,
Drove deep from the heart of Sinope.
Blood sprouts and tears shed in shares same,
seven scions bore fruit in festered sin.

Nutured and coddled in righteousness,
two steps down the bloody slope.
Ripened by rage's hardened keenness,
Rukal did wear revenge's wicked grin.

Strings of feckless fury loomed and weaved,
consumed in chaos, the tapestry's pattern.
In anger's darkness, flesh and spirit thieved,
blinded by red mist, lost in terror's din.

Far removed are we from our distant error,
to hope reprieved in eras modern.
Alas retribution's clarions remain ever our conqueror,
if forgiveness is not our king of kin.

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Aeguary, in the year 795 AF.