O patient ones, Ones of Old— The light has fled from twain eyes. Thou perfect ones, the bold— Ye that set thy word on highs.
Let not part from part began veering, or to byword be our fate resigned. Blistering winds we weather blind, steering— the dotted line where death hath signed.
Hallowed halls beneath cinders lie, and a mote of light is hence removed. Witness as Gaia’s face is set awry, for by sword the spec is reproved.
The unclean damn the clean for it taints, whereby I implore the patience of the saints.