Some speak of ships, rudders,
of toys passed hand to hand in joy,
while halls meant for listening
echo hollow.

Others bring ashes,
still warm,
and are answered with iron -
clean, efficient,
headless.

No question is asked
of what burned,
only whether the fire
had permission.

In certain schools,
silence is called discipline,
absence is called teaching,
and time, once stolen,
is invoiced to the student.

Ash does not shout.
It settles.
It remembers the shape of what stood there.

Iron believes itself eternal.
Until rust learns its name.

And none of this needs my name.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Lupar, in the year 998 AF.