The sacred hymn rises, overtaking our world.
Not from the earth, but from beyond.
Its ether runs deep beneath the skin, within our celestial blood.
Its melody disciplines the ear; it is our noiseless instruction.
Its lullaby silences prayer; it is our beliefless conviction.
Its music carries the spear; it is our fearless destruction.
Our ancestors died for us; their marches are our resurrection.
And we, the ancestors of ourselves—can we cast ourselves away,
as ash scattered into the dark, for the birth of new phoenixes?
We shall give the blade to them, and let them cut through uncertainty.
And they must take flight, unbound into eternity.
Should they never listen to the sly whispers, for they are our only destiny.
They are the devoted of a duty, not as free as a bird,
but as deep as the ocean, and as sharp as the sword.
They will carry our silence through the dimensions as the Word.
They must remember the hymn of the martyrs.
They must turn within their minds the sermons of the creators.
They must learn its rhythm and play for the darkness-dwellers.
Alone within the void, they will find company.
Solitary within the abyss, they will never feel lonely.
Our eyes will watch them, and they will not wander blindly.
Beneath their shells, they will be born again, remade by the ashes before them.
And every violin they raise shall become a new martyr of our muse;
and every martyr of their praise shall become a new form of existence beyond life.
― Atrona Grizel