In the halls of Cyrene, your name echoes loud,
A guardian of Sea, in your duties endowed.
You've brandished your sword, Lord Knight of the realm,
Steering the helm of a ship you overwhelm.

In iron and courage, your legacy's spun,
No higher an honour for a father, than to call you his son.
But as you stand guard, a guardian pure,
We both know the truth: you'll return here no more.

You venture forth, my son, on a path of your own,
In lands far removed, where your legend has grown.
The lodge may be empty, the hearth without fire,
But it's stoked by my pride, which will never tire.

Though you're distant in body, in spirit you're near,
In every wave's crash, it's your laughter I hear.
You won't walk back through that old, weathered door,
But you're ever in my thoughts, now and evermore.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Miraman, in the year 931 AF.