white crane bows her head
red spots feathers like a crown
or spatter of blood

black mountain towers
voices raised to hear their sound
proudly say nothing

lightning splits the sky
clouds torn asunder with thirst
the rain does not quench

man puts out his eyes
content to wander blindly
in fear of himself

snow drifts in silence
to a ground rife with corpses
the world comes undone

rage sleeps in its grave
the python and the cold blade
rearing in Her hand

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Scarlatan, in the year 778 AF.