Black is the sky, the deepest night
A canvas once beautiful with moonlight
Its visage twisted from those who fight

Red-gold is the pyre, its leaping fire
Beneath Creation's banner they conspire
Far-reaching fingers seek lives to expire

White is our colour, the unseen passion
That guides our hearts with compassion
We strive to be heard in poetic fashion

Sweet is the violet in our hands
Hoping that the gift would make sense
This helpless frustation at Creation's plans


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Glacian, in the year 644 AF.