By: Ferdinand S. Panerio +

Rendered in High Old Tongue
Thrice-born am I — aye, thrice I stand:
Myself, the Shadow, and I unplanned.
Inward storms dost fiercely clash,
Where soul meets soul in mirrored ash.

Banished afar from hearthstone’s light,
From kindred dreams and love's delight,
All things once held in gentle grace
Hath withered in time’s cruel embrace.
Lonely, I sup the bitter draught,
Where sorrow lies in silence quaff’d.

Madness, folly — such jesters grim,
Did weave with me a fatal hymn.
Yea, I took Queen Faith to be my bride,
While Honour slept and Shame did bide.
Now, dost disgrace seek mine end?
Shall I in shadow’s mire descend?

Nay! Awake, O soul, from slumber deep!
Cast off the chains where cowards weep!
For lo — my blood, though marred by strife,
Still sings of land and sacred life!
My country’s call, like thunder’s cry,
Doth rouse the fire in slumbering eye.

No more shall I in silence tread,
For I am thrice, yet never dead!
The Exiled returns — not bowed, but free,
To die — or live — for sovereignty!