I stand on the windswept shore, with surf that chills my soles,
Footprints pressed but fleeting, reclaimed by shifting shoals.
My boots sink slowly downward, I wrench them free once more,
I turn away, already gone, the prints upon the shore.

Footsteps over footsteps, of friend and foe all slain,
Dented helms and broken shields lie rusting in the rain.
The nets of humble fishers drift with corpses side by side,
I linger in the ocean, and watch them claimed by tide.

I tread over footprints left and right, of those who'll never see the dawn
I stand amidst the waves, watching 'til my footprints are gone.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Miraman, in the year 984 AF.