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I have yielded this sword for time now countless,

and the cost was great: our mother's denounced us.

Am I to stand statuesque, as a final chaos erupts around us?


You ask, "what good are the sharps cuts of this blade,

when all that's left are surely holes meant for graves?"


Scorched earths don't tell a tale of gracious hosts or pedigree,

but must what's left be sentenced to an equal destiny?


In death is a loss of name,

A sorrow's release after life's great sufering.

Herald of the grave from afar,

Not the archangel, but the saviour-nevermore…nevermore.


Gladius ea ferro nos servabit

Arbor vitae dabit lumen


Si venerit ad locum meum

Vos scitis quod factum est et venerunt ad faciem!

Salvator in perpetuum

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