When autumn’s day grows old,


sad orchard leaves do fall.


Dawn breaks o’er silent gardens,


bereft of sweet birdcall.


Stark winter’s dirge then wails,


until the earth appears,


white clad ’neath drifted dunes,


whilst trees bear crystal spears.


My chamber is a refuge here,


against the snowbound night,


a flickering cave of crimson gold,


made warm by firelight,


where images are conjured,


of friends I used to know.


I battled and I marched with them,


one dusty long-ago.


I see them now arise again,


in memory that ne’er will fail.


Their legend is reborn anew,


and thus begins my tale.

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