I will sing a great lament for the Lost Divine
And the land will echo with the sound of my weeping
I will feel the blade three and thirty times
But only the earth will accept my grief's libations
Blood spills and mingles with my tears
For those who would have heard my prayers are gone
To whom do I owe my blessings?
At whose feet do I lay my sword?
Is there a care in my heart for Sapience,
When Divine hearts have found it unworthy?
I stand alone in the woodland, weeping
And only the trees are there to hear me.
Perhaps when my eyes are empty of their tears
The flow may be enough o quench my raging heart.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Valnuary, in the year 305 AF.