As a shard of failing memory sought shadows in the mist
Hooded figures standing silent
Men who no longer exist
Heed the beacons' warning,
Murmurs on the winds and waves
As the figures sinking slowly
Back into their ancient graves
A thousand blackened whispers
Creeping from the marsh and mire
In a language now archaic
From a time of blood and fire
Realities of ice and darkness
Moulding every mortal span
As a cold wind stirs the ashes
Ground down from the bones of man.

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