In the end, in nothing, we persist.
Our body is the Earth, we are kin, purified in His name.
Desiccant bones line foundations of our world, we are the Earthen floor.
His kin forsake dreaming, no desire for ephemeral delusion.
Pure Earth has never sprouted life.
None have died, for we are reborn by His gift.

The ephemeral edifices in which one claims victory are fleeting.
We fight war eternal, where one ends, another begins.

May we never know peace.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 13th of Severin, in the year 504 MA.