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Ten visions lie sleeping
and my song has awakened them all.
For my words are the leveling wind,
are the blood of the trees
and the fire on the shores,
the gods walk in my song,
where ten visions waken
in the hands of my singing:
I offer them, glittering, shattered,
and the gods break in my hands.
V
Istar, your army in Balifor
is a gauntlet, clenched
on a quicksilver heirloom.
Your priests in Qualinost
are dazzlements of glass
fractured on red velvet.
Your light hand in Hylo
steals breath from the cradle:
Ice on the glove.
In Silvanost, the white thighs of the women
wade through the muddied waters
of Thon-Thalas.
Your sword arm in Solamnia
entangles in filaments,
in the spider's alley.
Your children in Thoradin
dream away ancestries
of green earth and sun.
The shards of remembered Ergoth
collect to a broken vessel
from dispersion they call the planet's twelve corners.
One name on the lips of Thorbardin
the rows of teeth
unmarked gravestones.
Your fingers in Sancrist
fumble the intricate hilt
of a borrowed sword.
But, Istar, the last song
is yours, the song at the center of songs:
A bleached bone on the altar
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