We bend our backs to the silver tide,
to the tide that turns the years —
the tide for which the old gods died
and wrung war out of tears.
We turn our eyes to the roiling night,
to the night that never ends —
the night in which we taste the blight
that in our dreams transcend.
We hone our ears to the coming song,
to the song that spans the land —
the song for which we must be strong,
for the prophecy so planned.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe