The blood of six children,
Born under empty moon.
Poured in intricate patterns,
Still burning Dusk and noon.

Sins of fathers calling,
From years past and gone.
Revenge the children's voices,
Silenced before the dawn.

And Ages pass,
Rising suns.
And no one remembers,
The songs once sung.

Songs of hope and Glory,
Stories of winter's freezing cold.
Now by no-one to be heared,
Now by no-one to be told.

And once again moons darken,
For more Patterns to be cast.
Hot iron smolders, sizzles,
Snuffs the children's life in haste.

For as the Iron colder gets,
And the blacksmith's hand strikes true.
The childrens blood casts Iron Blades,
And crimson red the morning dew.

This is my first ever published creation.
It is most obviously affected by my favorite genre - dark
fantasy. It comes from somewhere deep inside