The gentle mother silently dreams,
And brings to her child a scent from the west wind's shore.

Then, she quietly departs,
And the only words her child hears,
Is a prophecy of forlorn melancholy.

The slumber of Titans, the fragmented lullaby, the roar of the guards,
All merge into a torrential black tide,
That carries the first demigod,
From the past to the future —

And that was,
The beginning of this long dream.

In this tiny room,
She forged twenty years of her memories with time.

Sometimes, the child does not understand —
The gates of worlds outside the window are so numerous,
Yet why can we not step within?

And if one cannot leave the tower,
What need is there to gaze into the distance via tomes?

The mother smiles and does not answer,
Only using bedtime stories,
To once again gild another golden sheen of destiny,
To the Amphoreus of the child's dreams.