A slight flame whispers from emptiness
Not held in vain
The god sits close at hand
Where seven children of the king are held
The forebears will come forth
From the depths of hell
Loathing to see those dead are the fruit of their line
The gods are authors of a great dispute
The moon is absorbed in deep bloom
The one that stands in the darkness
Will grasp the blade in his greivance
But he dies too soon and the war ends