In the 1500\'s, an island meeting place
That in the 1800\'s, will leave no trace
For time and its ever changing face
With maps, hide this gathering space
Templars corralled on a high dry band
Will travel east and play in the sand
The curse from afar that will empty this land
Then yet, once again, must its patrons disband
For betwixt the lakes, not the roiling seas
Does the Templar standard mark its deeds
One lach becomes two, or so it seems
Inter the hunters and their endless schemes