In lines of flame, ichor and blood are the final lines of this tale
Written, an end to the story, revolving for too long, kept alive
By forces nowhere near diabolical despite the savage results;
Priests, monks, itinerants, scholars and tribespeople, no background
Matters in this game without winners, the mitre disdained for the mace.
By slow degrees we find the broken pieces, pottery and parchment,
Torn down statue stumps and tiled floors with worn out patterns,
Every piece a part of the whole, threads in the tapestry of story left
Untold apart from by these parts disparate and separated from all
That gave them meaning, joined again in the void of our undying minds.
Had I or others but known a fragment of the fallen epic here interred
By fog and by force, I reason that none of us would have set our feet
Upon this tainted land, poisoned in every way, no matter what exotic tales
Have gone untold of this land left to its own ruin, yet here we stamp
Our tired feet, rest set aside for the eternal nonce and death our only reward.