The Lady of Wings, Compassion's Own,
Turned Her back upon the world.
Spreading wings, flew into the Void,
Her face averted, Her wounds unhealed.

And then within that darkling plane,
Heard call of beacon, returned in fire,
A white-clad city, a mortal realm,
That spoke of light and practised dark.

Pity, unknowing, insulting the scars,
What has endured and changed for better?
The willow bends, accepts the storm,
The oak is broken, and asunder, torn.

What survivor loves the pitying glance?
Such kindness insults, all things bitter.
Compassion's own, innocent, unknowing,
Pities survivors - loathes their scars.

And scars become a long-travelled road,
Tattoos spread brilliant against the skin.
The storm which scarred now grows flowers,
Mere survival becomes acceptance, joy.

But who forsakes the storm? The sunlit day,
Which casts aside the strengthened,
And seeks a purity, a world without rain.
Compassion turns to mindless horror.

So turn to heal and stop the storms,
One could soon as stop the sweeping tide.
Change comes and alters all living things,
History sweeps on, the hands move in time.

Isune, Lady, Compassion's Own,
Twin, matched, by Viravain's rose.
Against the tide, turn back the storm,
But fail and fall, asunder torn.

And yet from failure, what is born?
The song of power, beauty, strength.
No Mercy, they cry, and are born anew,
And Compassion's eyes sees naught but pain.

The storm has washes across this world,
The coming dark that bends the reeds.
Those who endure, survive, are changed,
The Tapestry rewoven, the Taint as pure.

And natural, the flaw within each thread,
That must remain - imperfection for perfection.
All must change - to each day a coming night,
The Wyrd and the Taint, the Pure and the Light.

Then the lesson's truly learned - they sleep.
Webs and wings entwined, their minds as one.
Awaking, they spread tenebrous feathers,
Gloriana reborn, the storm reforged.

Eyes unknowing, innocent, turn and widen,
Horror that sees the truth - four eyes.
Viravain's truth sees not the Taint -
Isune's eyes see the flaw in all that is.

Which is truth? Both, one claims, and neither,
The storm leaves marks across all mortal threads.
Reality rewoven, a darkling pattern worked,
That flatters the sunlight and golden day.

And yet beautiful on its own - black and purple,
Crimson, blue as the star-torn night.
Mystery, power, maturity - the strengthened dark,
That beggars the bright and harsh light of day.

But Isune forsakes Her darkling children,
Turns away and weeps - all joy forgotten.
And Gloriana sings, their Wyrd begotten,
Of light that casts shadows, a Wyrdling night.

Meanwhile, a song, in the City of Engines,
That turn on, eternal, mystical, chymical.
Marble carved that tells a tragic tale,
A metaphor, a truth told on the slant.

The gears that turn beneath marble skin,
A silent story, portrayed in white statuary.
Isune's hand outstretched in urgent prayer,
Angels that chain her, demons in flight above.

The swords that strike at delicate ankles,
The blackened hand, the handsome face on high.
To be free of perception and reveal the truth,
Or chained to fear and anger, pain?

Sand eats away the face of Compassion,
Day turns to night - light becomes corrupted.
Truth becomes lies, evil then does good -
Free the misguided - but which face is which?

Oh, no, the eyes of Beauty are blindfolded,
And empty yet of seeing fault or perfection.
Golden hands cover the Aesthete's eyes,
Her children are torn, weeping, away from Her.