The sun turns its back on the shattered field
Bloody pools blacken as Twilight takes command
The groans of the dying refuse to yield
Swords still gripped in lifeless hands

What good can come from this senseless pain?
Why do we let these deeds be done?
Look, all ye Fools, on Death's foul reign
For the end is only oblivion


Penned by my hand on the 12th of Chronos, in the year 316 AF.