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.

Alas, the golden light of destiny,
Cannot illuminate the shadows of power and greed.

All it takes to rob the child of her only kin,
Is a letter of dark conspiracy.

The culprit though the murder had no flaws,
But was unaware that the lamb willingly stepped into the passage's dead end.

Before the priest met her demise,
The only thing her eyes contained was spite.

Yet she leaves her final warmth and hope,
Embroidered into those dolls,
Leaving them behind for her innocent love.