One feels the tread of history,
upon thus soul of mine,
six hundred years this spring,
clearly life blessed by Divine,

Plenty are older then he,
he has no doubt of this,
but how many truly lived,
carrying his level of doubt,

From youthful extremes,
deeds and preaching indeed,
devotion supreme,
to his Mother, praise be in his heart.

Wealth, power, women,
trickled through his fingers with ease,
history was like sand,
trickling past in the breeze,
upon the New Hope beaches,
ever bellowing with dreams,

Event after event neverending,
He had watched with mortal eyes,
how many truly remember
the terror of endless night,
or the fortress towers,
upon the plains of invasion?

Gods have been witnessed,
the list is extensive indeed,
zap, maggot, bush,
time lost and time remembered,
oaths given and broken,
upon the rattle of Their deaths,
whom knew in the end,
that mortals would die last.

How many stood, upon other worlds,
witnessing the savage sky,
how many remember the darkest of nights,
as wave after wave came after?

Did you even know the Weaver?

Blood rain, perhaps, but do you recall,
the first modern sails on the waters?
The rise of hatred rising bright,
as libraries burned in the night?

Who truly stood upon the docks of Jaru,
helping those survivors come across,
the numbers are few, but there he was,
as the Te'Serra faded into black,
shattered temple doors a reminder,
of what he'll never get back.

Watched, helping, belittled and hated,
a black sheep of his Order,
yet strong in his honour,
disowned by his mother,
beloved by his father,
he wandered the land,
to find the home he felt wanted.

Cities, politics, power, position,
he's held so many, helped so much,
yet rarely acknowledged,
a youth of rumours unforgiven.

Arrogant, perhaps, to talk upon oneself,
to bask in a life ones lived, while most weep and complain,
to acknowledge himself, even if the world balks and wavers,
Six hundred years, this coming spring,

In a world full of ghosts, reborn and distant,
he watches the world, amused for the most part,
as people scurry, their candles flickering bright,
only to fade in a century, absorbed by the night,

His Goddess and faith, he holds to this day,
yet regrets not taking his place at Your side to this day,
His family he misses, every child, every day,
his sons and his daughters, through six hundred years,
they might not believe it, but he loves all of them deeply,
with a sorrow that grows, with each passing year.

Nine generations of family he's watched,
spreading like roots of the giant tree,
he's watered, careful, nurtured and pruned when needed,
a tree that branches reach every city and rank,
he's proud of their accomplishments, he's proud of them all.

Lion's Rest, his final gift, to the world and to the family,
nestled in the Shamtota, a momument to his insanity,
he stands upon the hills, above His Goddess's Temple,
and saddened to know so much have fallen,
but hopeful for the future.

Six hundred years this spring,
it's been one hell of a ride,
as he shakes his head another day,
and continues with his duty and drive,
until death does take him,
to reunite with the Sun in the sky.










Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 961 AF.