Memory Fragments: Probity

The Sounds Of Ending Chronicles

There was once a thousand-year-old quarrel between the species of these lands of Fanear
A war-like squabble for territories, resources and all those cliché things you tend to hear about
Clashes of talons, fangs, claws and weapons; too much for the earth to stay silent and not hear
I recorded the sounds of its endings in chronicles. Notes of both word and action on this bout

Let me describe them as poetic as they can be; for this piece needs a melody on par with
You let ears bleed with sorrow as you hear my heart. Among parties, the screeching of blades
The cutting words I lash out, they cut deep my view of the world. A vocal reaper with its scythe
I am the recorder, and you, the listener. With each cut, a tally word for those fallen in the raids

This is a memento of melancholy. For my own soul, she who weeps blood unto this earth
The red paints the soil I thread. The dripping past follows as I word it with my dragging sword
The picture I draw with it. The partiture of my voice, my cries, a faster tempo than my mirth
I am happy, and yet, I cry. It is too much too fast; the changing tune of my signature accord

I can send them off with the sounds of my singing. The least I can do for their harrowing
I sing as furious as their battles in death. For many will listen not an angel, but a demon
My lyrics are not for rapture nor for a captive audience. They are for halftime's passing
I want to slow and cherish this period. It is but the only moment I get to be their eudaemon

Whoever wishes to hear me, they might be deaf of heart. Their ending I sing, a short lullaby
Rest, I claim to bring. With peace I adorn my intentions. Nothing more than dulling to the heart
Still, I seem to be off key. With my rusty cleaver I swing the air and hear the decaying sky
The wind blows my voice away. Unto living ears I wish that they may end before they depart

These chronicles of mine always end in signing from me. I might be the voice of history
Through me, the good and bad. Both true, for it is my staying truth I wish to convey
No mere tales and hearsay they are. The records of the world as we know it lie in sophistry
I sing only the once-living. My inexorable composition shall not be muted and forever play

In war, the surrogates of mind speak lies to the death; for they cannot refute word with action
An entire concert is made for the winners, yet not a single requiem is heard among them
I am the composer too of the fallen. An undead harmony haunts their attempts at redaction
Though reaper they may call me now, back then, I was their martyr of the warring drum

I received the poundings. The shots and slashes of the enemy resound still in my body
Any help, from anybody, bereft of possibility amidst the notions of my ending life
I died that day. But the unfinished song of mine stills rings true inside everybody
I put an end to my chronicles by capturing the sounds of my last moments of strife

I am the sounds of war made flesh. Decaying as they end, a mortal song and dance
Putrid, horrid sounds I make now; still, the calming of silence wrote itself unto me
Tell me, how can I sound if I have no mouth? Silence, too, is a form of prance
Atop my riding, a gallop these cords attached to my heart towards a grave I see

Imagine it for me, for I cannot see it. Whisper it to me, for my voice is now buried
Be a bard to my resting soul and put an end to my resounding chronicle
Let it be heard among the living and let it die with them. My legacy is not to be carried
The blood notes I carved unto this earth dry up. I join my brethren now; my euphonical