Above your grave, without a tear,
the nations great and small shall stand;
you fell from dreams’ imperial sphere,
and will be named in the shadow’s hand.
Your gift of prophecy was lost—
exhausted by your age of gold;
you bound the heretics in knots
of entrails, cruel and cold.
You gnawed at minds, consumed their sight,
devoured humankind entire;
your haughty temper cloaked in right,
and law was stitched with dark desire.
Evil took root, became tradition,
and all your flocks grew legion-wide;
but madness drove your last ambition—
to stir the sea with mortal pride.
You waited east for stars to burn,
for dawn where night has never shone;
and with a soul too foul to learn,
believed yourself the chosen one.