Chapter Text
“Nor shall I fly just as gracefully
upon wings of pearly white,
flitting above the clouds like a dove,
carrying the winds of war
and the flag of revolt.”
“Hear that sound carried on the wind?
the song of bloodshed and raised fists;
Soon, the world will become naught but glinting metal
and it will run red with the blood of our rebellion;
May we fight well
for freedom and the unburdened song of unbound land.”
“The nameless bard of enchanting melodies
and gentle lullabies of free sky and sweet zephyrs
sings below the shackled heavens,
wishing away this land wrought with snow and storm,
buffeted with the harsh gales of tempests galore;
lyre in hand,
wishing for a dream not dreamt,
a dream that shines
with light from a tunnel’s end,
with the light from Pandora’s box;
lest we run dry of hope,
or of that fountain of bravery,
then we shall fight with this bard of song,
not with simple lyre in hand,
but with those calloused hands
holding icy weapons that shall be bathed in crimson.”
“In a time before the true years of idylls and repose
sang a distraught boy,
a boy who knew nothing
beyond the storm-walls, banishing the blue sky
from flaunting its beauty,
how that boy wished to see birds in flight,
not chained to the ground,
fettered by the howling wind,
wishing for the true sky;
the sky in which the cageless soar.
Were they wishes one would fight for?
'Yes,’ answered the curious spirit,
one of a thousand fleeting winds
of time and the free,
'Those are wishes worth fighting for,
Are they not?’
The boy merely laughed,
for it was the end,
and the arrow knew no happiness.”