We each tell our own tale
Of why this war must last
yet in the end, we all succumb
to humanity's blood-soaked past

Every age has it's battles
and each of these end the same
with young lives lost, and even more destroyed
yet still do the cowardly cast blame

And so it continues, this tide of death
And forever will it flow
yet I fight now those who ride it's currents
In hopes that it may slow

Everyday it drifts ever closer
To that which I must defend
And if I must die to make it ebb
Then I could not hope for a greater end

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Tenebrae, in the year 418 AD.