The ebon void of midnight's grace a dismal scene doth know;
Beneath its dreary starlit gaze, a world is set aglow.
This world the realms of men doth know; they call its seas their own,
Its widowed peaks their kingdomed keeps, its valleys their seeds sewn.
And from these valleys, peaks, and seas, their warriors build their pride.
Their weapons clash on brilliant steel an endless fathom wide.
The sparks unleash a burning lust; the children watch with glee,
And all the fathers' smiles faint suggest their sons will be
The masters not of steel or swing, but something better, more.
They dream of men who slay their foes by way of arcane lore;
A sweeping of a quiet hand, a burning ball of light,
A missile conjured through the wind, an enemy to smite,
And so it lands upon the foe, his flesh torn loose and flensed.
The dream then ends abruptly with the shouting of a friend.
The enemy has breached the walls; the sparks outside ignite
A bastion born of scorching flame, the city burning bright.
The battle passes 'neath the stars; the children see the day
And many others after that in all their great dismay.
Their loss has taught them many things: disgust, dispair, disdain.
It taught them how to use their minds to learn to wield the flame.
The stars of each of future's nights in deep remorse looked down
As those who once were innocent arose to claim the crown,
And with each passing of the throne, the fate of men became
A doom far worse than that before: the king had lost his name,
The steels of sword and shield were swapped with magics then mundane,
And all the smiles of the past were sold for gold or grain.
Nor ever were they kind enough to give the night her peace,
Nor ever were they wise enough to their own souls release.
And so they likewise pay their debts, the debtors and the stars:
One for putting forth the night, the other for her scars.