Above - here, from this place of starry height
do I behold such sad and sorrow'd scenes:
the slow erosion of a mountain bright;
the lapping brine of brackish tides that teem;
that Old Man so perch'd 'pon His palanquin -
yet hold! My eyes, it seems, have been deceived!

Basalt, once bearer of a golden chime
has thrown away the colours of its past;
the blue and grey fade easily with time,
it seems, and take on such a wine-dark cast
that stone gives way to naught but blackest waves
and salts flood streets and claim what you have paved.

How far into the foam can you yet stride
before the tide will overtake your breath?
Once solid - now stolid - you let Him ride
and sink into the sands to meet your death.
What happened to your voice, your vote, your song?
Or were you hoping you'd drown all along?

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Scarlatan, in the year 1004 AF.