This is is a recounting of grief;|
Hold fast to stories wrought in light;
This memory here was forged by death,
For the flowers of winter bloomed that night.
The battle of the Northern Pass raged,
Long and terrible were the hours past,
Bodies strewn across the winterscape,
Drawing shallow breaths and breathing their last.
The feral knights were like some beastly plowmen,
Planting their corpse-seed crop in wild rows,
Fields of alabaster till turned red,
When blood-splatter blooms are all that grows.
Until it became a deluge of slaughter,
and the white was consumed by crimson blight,
Those knights were flowering in their chaos,
When they bloomed those flowers that night.