In the era before
The Fall of the 'Great' Celestian Empire,
Mercy was still known by Glomdoring.
It was yet called
Gloriana.
The forest of every shade of opal,
Whose embrace was as
A gentle zephyr in the desert,
Whose wrath was as swift,
untamable and unpredictable
as the thunderbolt.

Centaubi's child-shards had
called the glitter-less forest
Home.
A place the rest their weary hooves,
To raise the colts and
To listen to the earth's
Breathing.
Ah! It breathed.
Also...
It seethed and grieved and wept ever
In anguish.

Not even the mancers of stone
Heard
As the Centaur heard.

They slept upon the fallen leaves,
drank of the river water clean,
ate of Nature's gifts free
And they Listened.

Thus, in the chaos of the Taint,
They felt the bones of the earth
Quake.
They heard the cold wind's silent
Scream.
They tasted of the river's waters only
Tears.
They saw within the nighttime stars only
Warnings.

Why could the others not?
It was obvious as the rythm of Nature!

They gave the messages then,
The forecasts of storms of death
And fogs of hate.
Only the trees and rocks heeded.
They cried, "Run away!".
The others stayed still.

Thus they left them,
The defiant flower awaiting the wild fire.
The Gloriana would not be destroyed,
They knew,
But what would be left,
Besides twisted ashes?