The Lion (poem)

Mighty lion of Judah, cast in marble. How could the progeny forget the name of the progenitor? Blinded by time and history. You stand untouched, forgotten by the isles. Nature is taking it all back, and your lineage must remain so that everything that has transpired will not have been for naught. Surely they will, for royalty does not fade, and violet is cloaked heavily upon the mantle of your shoulders. You make no decision lightly. Your gaze is strong, and comforting, but terrifying to those who hate you. Even worse to those not of the covenant.

And woe to those lute players, who sing songs of harmony while playing harlot. What kind of harmony is this, to strike at a herd and cleave it? Disregarding your memory with poisonous revel, many seek to do good but spawn malicious vessels. When the tremors come, the marble shall crack and dust will fall out and the exterior will split open. From its shell, the statue shall breathe once again. You will no longer be vestige, but living and breathing, flesh and blood. Bleeding, moving, aware and alive. The ancient guardian shall spring out of its shell, and the isles will face a sudden and unexpected reminder.

The lion roars O' forgotten one! Roar! Roar with the nations and let them not forget that the first to disregard the voice of reason is the first to fall from the starvation of truth! Many are starved for words and that void cannot be filled with unsound doctrine. And speak sweetly; For your roar is enough to shatter glass and to melt steel, but gentle enough to heal many wounds. The remnant protects your golden mane, and the scepter of your people sits steadily in the hands of those who bear Aaronic life. Was not Odin born from Adan, and Loki from the dissipation of the third letter? Similarly so, Andromeda and Europa sprung from Dorian migrations and even now their progeny weep and go astray. And the harlot, she burns. And Esau, he stands on fragile ground.

On a Mount on a far off island, a flame burns brightly that will not die down, but instead divides the waters. Dividing the waters, it divides the isles. And dividing the isles, it threatens the mainland. Your mainland is a golden compass, and your camp of the saints is surrounded by satyrs and ravaging beasts. They seek to destroy and become spots upon the feasts of charity. Is this Magog or is it a great reset upon the order of the ancients?

They are invited like kinsmen, treated as brethren, but like wolves they wander only to seek those that they can devour. Have your people forgotten the warning sign of fangs, and isn't history only repeating itself? Like a vanguard, you defend the sanctity of your cities to your last breath. But your shield is not even wielded by your most stalwart defenders, and your sword has lashed upon itself thrice. Only you are left to uphold the mind of a vanguard's intent, but even they don't know who they're fighting for. The imposters have fogged the eyes of remaining few.

The past must be protected and the earth is waterlogged. Your roar shall ignite the spark, and your people will be purified and restored. Who dares disregard you? Soon, they will all know the truth: That your mercy is fiercer than the dragon's flame. Use your roar. The time has come. Even the earth will feel it. Whether or not they feel fear or content will depend fully on their racial content.