A hundred swords will turn to rust, unsure of their master's fate
While empty Keeps shall gather dust, helpless within Time's wake
The flesh of men will rot and fade and with it their love and hate
And laughter shall be made to rest with tears enough to fill a lake

Cities shall rise and cities shall fall reduced to simple dates
And those memories may yet be lost even to the oldest drakes
But in those ancient lands and men, words were made to play
To dance, to sing and to rejoice in the glory of Father's make

For though the minds of mortals may forget everything in good time
Deeds and Songs shall always be honoured in His most ancient mind.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Chronos, in the year 644 AF.