Dawning a thousand strong, the running is wild and belonging.
Ashes bound to file away, relentlessly kept on humming.
Breathes of mild smiling gracefully sat amongst the wise,
shaken by her magic and her drumming sees and sighs.
Cries from the battlefields, where broke and honest men attend.
Shaped by their colors gone, blended by her mixed up hands.
No cruel mockery cascading down the walls about to crumble,
by the fallen landing on their feet only once again to stumble.
Such humble matters as her feathers borrow flight.