In a past age I was a blade that Justice drew,
Judgment cast by a King beyond my reach,
As I had done fell things, this I knew
Black my eyes and bloodied my teeth.

For the past decade I have taught my soul,
That justice brews in the drums of a heart,
Far from where the temple's dawn bells toll,
Breath on the fangs of Life's own snarl.

A child of Life, a sylvan, I
With a Mother who wove into my soul a snarl,
And sooner a thousand deaths I would gladly die
Than give injustice sway in my drumming heart.

Drums that beat a rhythm for the sake of war,
A fight with an end, an end, an end,
To bloody duty and brutal oath I swore,
I fight and defend, I fight and defend.

Yet those who stood at my side as kin,
Saw me not as a blade aflame with white fire,
But a force that swayed their drumming din,
A coarse threat of frightening pride.

I hear in harsh voices the call for balm,
In lies, in darkness, in pointed fingers,
In salted ash I thrash each reformed psalm
And in me, the shredded bleeding lingers.

Even in the depths of the earth below,
These truths I see, these cries I witness
And I have done fell things, this I know,
In palest flame and twisting sickness.

What words I say fall to echoed crimes,
Whether empty my hand, or holding a blade,
It matters not if edges bleed or peace should rhyme,
Strifehope, or love-and-blood, or ending's Glade.

The craven crawl in desperate scrabbling,
At crimes heard in echoes of aching minds,
No white fire seen in a shadow challenging.
Cast him out, burn him down, pray the deafened blind.

Slaughter his baby, urge worse -- the bleating weak
Who cannot fathom that still I snarl when sickened.
Cruel and banal is the safety they seek,
And still justice drums when my heart is quickened.

Yet past soft gossamer that sways like the wind
Drums of war themselves level an argent sign
While Strife's fist opened on a cheek of velvet skin
A large hand touched her face; a small hand touched mine

I am undone, Ileia, and I have given it for you!
For if my arm bares no justice then no end is my guide.
How justly does Srahda's Fate decide it must be true
That a father foreswear what others saw as pride?

Thus weakness like iron weighs down my veins,
In disgrace I fight, in mute fetters I defend.
No justice, no snarl, no blade to brace pains.
No end, no end, no end, no end.




Yet you smile, still, so soft your cheeks.
Scorn, blazes he who needs to snarl.
Black eyes glaze over bloodied teeth.
My palm feels the drumming of your heart.
.
.


Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 3rd of Sapiarch, in the year 18 AC.