What mighty hands now turn the Age's wheel?
As godly grace gives way to mortal foe
Our champions have fallen prey to comfort
As Dire Children chase the Matron's wake.

Cities soaring, framed by ebbing stars,
Shake against the echoes of an old hunger
And festering wounds form schims long since past.

"Surely they knew," a distant future reckons,
"Surely they heard the howls of a Fractured Age?"

How could they?

The wheel ust always spin,
Its gilded fulcrum rotting from within...

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