Obsidian vines strangle the last light of  day.
Hungry fingers stretch across the sky devouring dying embers.
Stars, phantasms of ancient fire, bear witness to the battle below.
A wooden throne cradles the dying king.
He lost the battle during this longest night.
His blood saps into fallow acre.
Nurturing the frozen soil so it may come to life once more.
Humans have arrived to celebrate the kings.
Slowly the warmth of their balefires brightens the night.
Sounds of song soothe the dying king’s soul,
As his contenter lifts the sword unsheated.
And thus, blood, fire, song and sword bring forth the reborn sun.