The Prophecy

In the dull fading light, where shadows cling to the land like whispers, a King will rise to claim, bound in chains of fate, cursed to sit a throne of brittle peace, brief as soft breath, lost as the dark night is to the new morning.  
 
The ship of gods, adrift in shallow waters,  
steers blind toward its deathly ruin, unmoored by the weight of its own splintered hull.  
 
See, the land trembles beneath that iron pulse of war machines bound, the towns and cities tangled in a thorn of rage, while new and old burn. O sunlit city, how often will you break?  
How often will you fall to blood stained hands, wrapped in foreign laws which are cold, barbaric, and void of grace?  
 
Yet the pulse remains, buried deep, and the Hydra shall awaken your empty veins while you aimlessly look into the abyss trying to find  answer of the new day.  
 
Look hear o sceptical one, here in silver vaults lie seven bloodlines silenced, heirs in gold bound, a lineage mourned by ancestors risen, their voices dust, lamenting the brittle line.  
 
And here comes one, risen quick to power,  
a wolf among men, fickle and false in every action and hollow word.    
He struts in sentences bold, cloaked in gilded treason, his loyalty lighter than a moth’s wing, yet Mars stirs, arms raised, dripping wrath ready to heed his call.  
 
Blood stains the century's waning light;  
the priests, exalted and then condemned,  
are cast aside by those too proud to learn.  
See the scythe gleam, high in Sagittarius moon, its shadow over all death, famine, war, disease comes for all who wait blindly.  
 
The heavens bleed crimson sky, the fields beautiful green burn to husks, forty years the sky, bare as bone, not one tear from the heavens falls in grace and forty more, drowned by weeping in every face like the rain that falls heavy without apologies washed away in fate.  
 
At the altar’s stones the serpents coil, while soldiers blood, pierced by foreign hands, grows thin. A leader hides, half-sunken in fetid mire, his power leeched to ground longer as those that follow scatter like rats and mice.  
 
Beneath him the mighty rock groans, white clay revealed, a treasure held within earth’s secret veins, but men fear it, blind to the fragile bones that hold the weight of worlds in it's closed doors.  
 
In the new-built city, the eagle descends,  
wings spread wide in sacrificial grace, the captive crowd, their voices spent, brought to silence by his gaze. From Northern Mountains to Eastern Shores , blood falls thick, hardships like sharp stones pressed to pierce the flesh.  
 
Yet among them, a name rises bright as the morning sun, his cure a god among men,  
yet rumors bite, and scandal breeds even as the moon completes her ancient arc.  
 
So as they fall, one by one, beneath these signs, the thunder and destruction by day, the bullet and knife at night, Reigns choked with war’s blood, the burning cities riddled with plague’s breath.  
 
Beneath the island oak, lightning cleaves sacred stone, a secret treasure within, gathered for ages, but those who reach shall die for it, a man struck blind by the fury of spring and the madness of winters bite.  
 
The seas will heave, casting forth the strange the smooth-bodied serpent, land-bound and grim, its form an omen to all that see its slippery scale.  
 
Enemies mass at the gates as the walls tremble, the city waits, and he that is left to scribe what stirs in the forgotten stars, as it was written the prophecy of men, fate woven in blood and silence, threaded through the ages till the end.