At first dawn, the war was sown,
winds grew cold, the trumpets blown.
Spears like thorns in mornings breath,
sand ran red with whispered death.

At second dawn, the city cried,
flames rose high as hope had died.
Peace was begged, yet none would stay,
vengeance swept all pleas away.

At third dawn, the world would break,
kings at war for powers sake.
Blades clashed loud and magic soared,
fate was sealed by fire and sword.

At fourth dawn, no sun arose,
only ruins, silent, close.
A city lost, two nations burned,
all from dreams that fate had spurned.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Mayan, in the year 967 AF.