They walk, like pallid lost,
In plethora of merging scars
Through battlehills of frost
That radiates the stars

One - a sinner, two - a rebel,
Third is just a memory
Wakened by a cringing treble
In it's grave of emery.

Now they march the rage of hordes,
Old as winding olive trees,
Warding on the fallen lords
'Till their tired eyes don't freeze.