The call for show of hands for estate death!
And now we end the path of blood we took.
As skulls became the cobblestones we tread;
In name of drop, how rivers bled from rook.

The crown we broke in two now grins at graves,
As liberty devours her fairest son,
With ******, jagged teeth and smiles of knaves;
Reminds of fight where only blade has won.

So many boars were drained, that spear-head broke,
And monster heads now drop in prayers, quite,
To add the last of drops to rills we woke.
The chains we forged from melted words we smite.

Deceived as wolf and flock by freedom's lock,
There can't be peace between the wolf and flock.

Or call for show of hands for easy breaths?
This way, the kings have fed on us so long.
Our grains of blood were woven into wreaths;
Our silent pain became disdainful song.

Like bed bugs, they have dried and ****** our blood;
A greedy vermin makes no truce with food.
And, pushed in ground—for we are only mud—
So, call for pyres to burn, and fetch the wood.

So, melt the lock, for key is broken, stuck.
The spear must drain the boar, for winter comes.
So, march in lockstep, as we need to pluck
The monster heads for whom this song we hum.

So, call for show of hands for strangled breath.
The call for show of hands for estate death.

There can't be peace between the wolf and flock;
There can't be ease between the hawk and hare.
There can't be better fit than key and lock;
There can't be better match than ma and care.

So told them, arrant—we who stand in ruin—
That bargain can't be struck for lash and back,
Or settle not the scores on blood so soon,
Nor hunt the hare and bitten piece-meal sack.

Again we ask—is key and lock our way,
Shall we be hand in hand, within lockstep?
Again we ask—is spear and boar our lay,
Forever, end to end, on side and wept?

So, call for show of hands for shallow deaths,
Or call for show of hands for easy breaths.

By callow bodies, fallow fields, and old,
We march again to fight our battles long.
Through drifting snows and whipping winds in cold,
With plowshares beaten into swords and song.

Our sixteen summers’ boiling heat in blood,
We chase away the numbing cold of cliffs—
A slip away from death in icy mud,
In steel and prayer, bearing crimson gifts.

By smoke and dust, we end by bitter vow;
In breath and bone, the death for us to shape.
On blood and ice, we see all shattered—woe;
Through glass and light, and see no true escape.

Our valor, shield; our spite, a spear we wield,
And here we stand with eyes bright and spines steeled.

For law doesn't divide the men from beasts,
For law divides the beasts—but wild from tame.
So born, the law from strife in lands too vast,
A beast of burden, cast from iron frame.

In name of justice, law is served at last,
And gobbled fast by starving men at large.
The peddled chains that kept their hands in cast
Held order buoyed on seas of chaos—like barge.

The best we have: a barge that sails across,
For better stuck than sinking, grasping breath.
The beasts that will not kneel are nailed to cross
And bled till chaos wrung from them—or death.

Forever beasts, to ever-gnawing end,
And ever chained away from clawing rend.

The call to Weaver, woven long in song,
As eerie creeps through depths so dark and vast,
Like Winter seeping into spine—so wrong—
To call our death as sure as summer's past.

On winter solstice, due for day unmade,
Then Weaver comes to play—and seeks the hide.
As seven monks from River Oath have strayed,
A tomb is built, a fortress tall and wide.

On summer solstice, debt in day repaid,
Then Weaver sings—and hides away the sick.
As seven monks from bone their flesh have shed,
The tomb is melted into mists They lick.

So, children, call for Weaver not in jest,
For They may stir beneath your bed from rest.

The brave and cowards fit in selfsame grave,
But not the songs, for deeds yet shape their fame.
With rasping throat and grating tongue, we rave
Of songs that vary, walking paths not same.

They crooned and groaned their will on world again,
To teach us not to scorn the fear we feel:
That fear is mankind’s eldest friend ere pain,
For pain’s behind the err, before the heal.

So, hold your fear in heart and seek advice,
As brave have countless times before they soar.
But let it rule you not, nor heed this vice,
For fear has stayed the hand of pain before.

The brave do make their fear a fervent shield,
While cowards yield, for death and pain to meld.