You do not walk this fragile earth alone
While your steps are interlaced with Hers -
She, the opposite of sorrow's cries
And wailing, half absurd, into the night -
In Her, the ebon Goddess of the Dawn,
We live each moment even as we die.

Some say the only constant is to die,
And thusly, spend their little lives alone;
Missing the brilliant colors of the dawn
Never knowing the soft touch that is Hers.
Instead, they slink like serpents in the night,
Echoing obligatory cries.

"Woe is me!" the solemn servant cries
Eager to cast emotions off and die -
Thinking that the empty caress of night
Will save their life from being spent alone;
But it is false. The path of warmth is Hers,
Who calls us forth to bring Eternal Dawn,

She, whose presence resonates at dawn
She, who redeems those lost within their cries -
Oversees this constant truth: Hers
Is a path that does not bid we blindly die
Or ever take a single step alone.
Her morning sun will always conquer night.

And in this Age when those who live by night
Ceaselessly work to terminate the dawn -
Remember this: They who work alone
Are doomed to wallow in their bootless cries
And wail with despair even when they die.
This is not your fate when you are Hers

For She embraces warmly. Remember, Hers
Will bring Her judgement to the stygian night,
Punish those who willingly choose to die,
And rain Her Fire on those who scorn the dawn.
Listen to the shadow as it cries,
For it has been condemned to live alone.

This path is Hers, and we are not left alone
To fill the night with our incessant cries.
Renewed with Dawn, we live even when we die.


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Variach, in the year 235 MA.