In Kiyokami's vole beneath the bruised sky's glass,
Two sons of Yotsu stood at the Broken Pass. Wulf with eyes of storm and Benjamin with
rune-dark hand, They face the empire's iron and the shadowed
marching band. The wind's smelt of smoke, of oil of men
long spent, Blisters on palms, dwindling bread, the cold
of nights unbent. So sings the ridge of Wulf's bright flare,
Ben's dark rune in midnight air. Seven days they held, six long nights of frost
and flame, Watchfires guttered low, the hunts' claimer
calling names. Hear the iron tearing, the horses' last lament,
Hold the line, keep the pass, their breath a sacrament.
Oh, Broken Pass, where two stood tall and would not fall,
Against ten thousand voices, they answered the battle call.
Wulf's thunder sparks split the iron hide, Foes undone, Ben's shadow run,
Lament laid low, the marching son. Raise your cup and sing,
Your courage carved the stone, the past remembers,
How they kept the nation home.
On the third day's dawn, the empire's iron beast advanced,
Plates like blackened mountains, gears that gleamed in chants,
Wulf struck the sky, thunder-forged sparks leapt from his hand,
They bit the tank's cold bellies, made the iron beast unmanned.
Benjamin's dark syllables wrapped men in sable thread,
They fell like autumn leaves, and yet the earth took bread,
The smell of cordite mingled with rain and with blood,
Steel-grown bones cracked, the world was carved in mud.
But victory is a blade that cuts both edge and wrist,
They felled the ranks and filled the ground with,
Names on lists beneath the rout.
The sorrow lingered, a slow and patient ache,
For every light been whispered, a hundred candles break.
Oh, broken past, your stones are stained with twilight's hush,
Ten thousand dreams fell silent in the empire's crushed rush,
Wolf sparks like coal, the iron husks are scarred and spent,
Ben's rune still smolder where the lads to earth were sent,
Sing not just triumph's shout, but the hush after the fray,
That we remember all the cost, and honor what they paid.
Now on the high road stands a statue, two in one,
Wolf's fist frozen mid-light, Ben's cloak clasped as if knotted,
One below the road, the broken tanks lay like ships run aground,
Mass graves mark the silent rows where the fallen met the ground,
I lay my palm upon the stone where their names are scored,
Feel the heat of memory, the hush of every sword,
Hear the mother's bell at dusk, the children's whispered prayers,
A memorial stands forever, a wound that time still wears.
Oh, broken past, keep watch, let no new banners pass,
Let every traveler learn of courage sung in brass.
Wolf and Benjamin, your vigil cast in iron and rime,
Teach our sons to guard the peace and weigh the scales of time,
We praise the sparks and shadow runes, we mourn the lives it cost,
And guard the broken road where so much glory was lost.
Remember their names, let slow bells toll beneath the moon,
Wolf of Storm, Ben of Rune, their memory a rune,
Lay wreaths, kindle watchfires, let the bards forever pass,
The tale of how they held upon the broken pass.
