to behold the Sun within one's Grasp...
You who think you are a god
suffer greatly from the Burning Rasp,
dreaming happily in a Fool's Façade.
Your here is now, your present is past;
time is a Shell, and yours has been shod.
Every breath taken could be your last,
yet onward do you eagerly trod.
a Mind so coveted by the whorish Fate...
From the womb did it hungrily thirst
and dream of such Malice and Hate;
through the grandmother was it nursed.
Delusions you'd only meant to sate...
but alas, markèd are you: Cursed!
As Inri Sejenus wrote in his Tractate,
"Of Abominations, the Man-God is worst."
a Heart so wickedly Dark and Feral...
Heal the Bruise and forget the Pain!
Take up arms and ride against Fayanal!
Crush the Heathen, as Inri did Fane.
Look back, far back past the peril
to know the moment you'd gone insane.
As the Golden Lion shakes his Mane,
an air befalls him, a visage ephemeral.
a Soul chained, yearning to be Freed...
Forgotten Sins locked in a sturdy Tower
mixed with childish Innocence does breed
a certain kind of tremendous Power
unknown to men with mugs emptied of mead.
A soul (if chanced) Fane would devour,
and so there exists a need to heed
unpleasant affairs and all things sour.
to behold the Sun within one's Grasp...
You who think you are a god
suffer greatly from the Burning Rasp,
dreaming happily in a Fool's Façade.
Your here is now, your present is past;
time is a Shell, and yours has been shod.
Every breath taken could be your last,
yet onward do you eagerly trod.
False God-of-Men, heed my word!
You lead an army of skin and bone
not unlike that of the black Bird.
Lend an ear to the Wind; hear the moan
of he who unto You has power deferred,
the mantle stolen from his Throne.
And although you find this notion absurd,
you Will have to reap what you've sown.
Your Nansur men are weak and weary,
impatient, their duties do they shirk,
rubbing salt from tired eyes until bleary.
Shorn of all armor, gone is each hauberk...
Yet loyalty remains; as Testament of their Fury,
they rise up bearing dagger and dirk
to fight the heathen with hearts so purely
enshrouded in Mist, entrapped in Murk.
To print the Imperial Sun across the land,
to damn all enemies to everlasting Hell,
this would be your way, and by your hand
should all of Ëarwa finally be quelled.
But most of all, do you surely demand
truth of fantasy: in some small Fanim dell,
the death of Kellhus gone as planned;
for the Accomplished Liar will toll the bell.
to behold the Sun within one's Grasp...
You who think you are a god
suffer greatly from the Burning Rasp,
dreaming happily in a Fool's Façade.
Your here is now, your present is past;
time is a Shell, and yours has been shod.
Every breath taken could be your last,
yet onward do you eagerly trod.
