To the remains :
Unto the crimes, we lay a resting.
For should the dawn come, could we ever recieve it?
Shall we ever percieve it?
The glow of Crimson, the scent that bathes the Sun.
When children run home with treasures they hath found,
May the gentle carry the lamb unto their bosom,
And inspect the measure of its worth?
Or, shall the standard fall by the wayside,
Trampled by the ambition of souls made of earth.