Eschaton - Crimfall

I see them in the last of stands

Men of virtue with unbarred arms

Weirs poised against the fate

What veracity facing salt-laden storm

Mustering the past retreating in hast

Yet tide waits for no one

As must we march in bain

On eve of brighter dawns to come

Until falls the rain

What was sent fort must now return home

All paths will close, all bridges burn to stone