The sun has dawned, yet the old night lingers
The sun has dawned, yet it eludes sight.
The earth I now inherit is one of ashen dunes
Haunted and inhabited by ancient sediments
They speak as if they live, these broken pieces
Still painting a picture of a kingdom failed and lost.
Anatta, there is no core in spectres
Yet they are around me and in me
Their tongues are mine
They are the air and wind
In scorched desert storms and the dry breath
The Chorus of restless voices.
A king must be an exorcist
Laying to rest the ghosts of ideation
Banishing the mirages of dust so the sun might pierce an ashen sky.