Hope fades, with the setting of the sun,

anchors falling, savage brume choking lungs.

The Banners dance, across our wounded home,

Alessia weeps, for the fires that no longer burn.

–

Ere the vipers fled, and the crowing caws now gone,

o treacherous legion, seating worm upon throne,

our Heartland altars, no more divine.

–

Upon the winds, their chorus sails,

echoes of a revolution still sung.

Shadows lift, heavens hue foretells,

the red dawn calling you home.

–

Akatosh’s legacy, by sin or virtue fades,

honour Whitestrake, who lived and died as none.

–

Forget not, how White-Gold tamed jungle to home,

or how crops thrived, by the grace of the Niben.

How thirst was quenched, by vines of West Weald,

and by Jerall and Valus, the Heartland shield our kin.

–

Wherefore art now thou blades, and thou spells to light the dark?

–

Upon the winds, their chorus sails,

echoes of a revolution still sung.

Shadows lift, heavens hue foretells,

the red dawn calling you home.

–

Let heathens tremble, under pounding hooves,

banners streaming, and trumpets clarion,

the Red Legions riding home.

S.K