Toward darkness ride out
the sons of our folk,
Below banners on steeds
now bearing this yoke
their fathers created
from thinnest of smoke.
A false promise, a premise
to follow onto,
To entrust their lives
to fate—it shall do,
What matters it all
to those who but rest
back home betwixt pillars
of marble and chests
that may swell after lives
shall be taken abreast.
Common lives
do they matter
when riches await
those who send fodder
to Devil’s own gates?
The sons of our folk
their lives are but fleeting,
Fair stones we do toss
in a lake without meaning.
