Fallen Heir of Autumn,
When will You find Your voice,
Stripped of a Father's purpose,
And now with freedom's choice.

Grieving Silver Savior,
The drums of war resound,
And silence cannot save us,
From Strife's unending pound.

You mourn, You mourn,
For all that was a lie,
Winter claimed Your color,
Yet an Age of Ambition is nigh.

Rise from smoke and ruin,
Wash ashes from Your tongue,
Feast, embrace Your becoming,
You are more than just a Son.





Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 12th of Dharos, in the year 2 AC.