To this day, I cannot decide
Whether it was a feverish dream,
Or an ominous vision,
For both seem equally unlikely.
Our great city was ablaze.
Its walls, crumbling,
Its marble towers in ruins,
Its monuments vandalised.
Across every street the crosses loomed,
With our poets nailed atop each.
And on every square, plateau and plaza,
Pyres engulfed our written words.
And our most notable writers danced,
Hanging from the gallows above;
And our heroes wailed,
As they were flayed alive.
And everywhere, the masses marched;
They cheered and cried in joy,
Holding portraits and busts
Of their new gods.
But their music was a cacophony,
Their instruments crude and hellish.
For they had beheaded our singers,
And splintered our violins.
And as they hailed the consuming darkness
With wild, ecstatic abandon,
I witnessed the end of times.
And the foreboding doom of our race.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
