Once upon a summer's eve
the Jewel of the East did quiver
to seek a Rose in freedom's grasp
and an orphan thereby deliver.

Assassins, bows arched in the night
tried to break a couple's heart
and steal a flower from their garden,
to tear a new family apart.

But chaos chimed in, duality
wrought across its brow:
This child is loved here.
And nowhere else shall she go.

The hunter lay dead upon the earth,
but only for a wink of Aeon's eye.
For when the petal's flower rose up,
she offered him to the great moon in the sky.

Candles strewn upon the ground,
their flames but bitter dust,
when Light is extinguished by those who carry it
it makes you wonder who to trust.

If piles of children are more your taste,
and blood running through the streets,
the Lin'Quei shall do their best
to fill up your 'compassionate' plates.

For me and mine I can say only this:
Our blossom remains intact.
She is our Rose, her surname is ours,
and she is never coming back.



Penned by my hand on the 8th of Phaestian, in the year 414 AF.