Westerley
This world, it blows a bitter breeze,
The wind, it picks up long dead leaves.
This world has long fed mankind's greed,
So see it bathed in setting sun.
…
Qresh and Leith are in the sky,
Broken Arkyn drifting by.
Those born here fated to die,
Nowhere can they run.
…
Westerley's a barren moon,
For many, death, it comes too soon.
Can see better worlds in midnight's gloom,
All dream of a better life.
…
But from these worlds high overhead,
Often comes a sense of dread.
Westerlyn blood is often shed,
The Quad's a land of strife.
…
So with little hope or sense of trust,
They return their gazes to the dust.
Their drink is dirt, their food is rust,
Per favour of the Company.
…
Their spirts, they've long since been crushed,
Despair comes to them in a rush.
Always get the smallest crust,
So says Westerley.