The sun sets low on Lands of Dawn,

a gilded peace, too swiftly drawn.

The river’s song, the market’s hum,

a fragile stillness, overcome.

For in the East, where shadows sleep,

a crack, a chill, begins to creep.

No name, no form, no hateful face,

just absence in that hollow space.

It does not strike, it does not rage,

it merely turns another page—

un-writing light, un-making stone,

a silence that will sit alone.

From heights where silver temples gleam,

a cry is torn from prayer and dream.

Two sisters rise, of sundered light,

to stem that never-ending night.

(Chorus)