This urgent voice inside our head is placed to guide us in its stead.
We march into the mountains of darkness with heads bowed low,
We march into the echoes of lost time with perfect dying cadence.
They have taken our sight and the pits of our eyes are sallow,
Stinking dripping holes of bloodless blindness;
And yet we do not know we sleep with consorts of our enemies,
Their breaths fetid and wreaking in the arms of our bedrolls.
This path of ardent brilliance has illuminated our ignorance,
This path of pure faith has enlightened our disbelief.
Our pickaxes hollow the rock of our own tombs,
Our swords clatter against armor; a mimic ring of our own doom.
They have taken our King Alochnar and tortured him every sin,
Running the blades wet with our blood warm against his skin;
And yet we do not stand to fight nor even stand at all,
Their words are silky spider’s web and we dare not stand at all.