They say it grows on the graves of our honored dead.
It is a herald for those who passed into shadow.
Now it shall grow upon mine
And so the horsemaster's aged king has passed away,
Into the lore and legend of our people.
No more believed than the story of an evil ring.
Simbelyme
That worn shell of mine gone to waste away
And now I have passed bravely onward,
Into the quiet afterlife and another peaceful world,
Like the rain on the mountain and the wind in the meadow.
Look for small white flowers growing so sweetly.
The flowers of the dead that embrace the legend.
Simbelyme
Look hard my happy young one
And you shall find my ancient grave among the others,
Softly covered in that precious and ancient flower,
Petals dancing in the faint breeze of the plain.
Remember the tale of the old king who fought and died for you.
Remember the lore of that beautiful white flower before you.
Simbelyme
© SFG