The dust flows across the ashen plains
Since ancient times has it ever blown
From the far off lands beyond
Where neither light of sun or moon
Pierces the primordial fog

Ever have the silent wanderers
Traveled in their great pilgrimage
Across the enduring heights
To reach that solemn place
Where the lord of pyrestone lies

Upon that path do the spirits also walk
Never more than a wisp of etheric light
Mourning the lost souls below
Who without their mortality
May never return to the living

When dreams may return to that land
The ancient bells shall toll
Off in distant towers never constructed
And when they resound in the deep
Those of the pyre may rise once more

From their tombs of cinder and ash