It came to be with utterances, with languishing words,
As the desperate shelter listed and fell,
Within the ashes of the muted and the intrepid,
Reduced to the wild remote of what once was.
Relics of scholars, libraries filled with the unremembered,
The timeless, scattered sands. The far-reaching celestial crescent,
In the veins of silver and quartz mountains, the voice of eras.
These all dwindled into the damp, infernal pit of exhaustion.
Yet, a seductive melody resonated through the blight,
It was in a moment of the darkness, where the Lynx rests,
Through a steely reserve, truth and consolation emitted,
In the perpetual gales and exposed in the land’s creep.
A livid, broad blade was beheld, hammered with scars and tragedy,
The alloy glared among the battered, the mangled, in the beyond,
Where the wrathful chant of fallen pines and morning dreams
Lingered in lazuline eyes, which filled with a wavering quest of hope.
It ended the way it all began, the mirrored nocturnal hour,
Within the labyrinth of legions, wove with hints and sullen secrets,
And the lost saber, etched with the art of bleak proverbs,
A return to history, into the Lynx Arc, amassed in the rift.