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He wakes, the child of spires

Impaler King, no heir, no marrow

O golden husk of rotting grace

What pyres burned to forge thy helm

What tongues were silenced, stripped of face

That Mesmer might ascend the realm?

He gardens pain with sacred skill

A harvest grown in screaming fields

Where bodies bloom upon the quill

Of spears unsheathed like serpent’s yields

The lotus of his judgment breathes

Its incense into choking skies

And every root beneath his wreath

Is nourished by the blood that cries

“Kneel, and be cleansed in the fang of the flame

Your god is hollow, your blood is to blame.”

He brands the soul with molten creed

And breaks the meek who do not bleed

« On m’accuse d’aberration

Mais c’est la grâce qui pourrit

Je n’apporte pas la guerre

J’apporte la fin

Je rends au feu ce que la foi ma volé

Et si je brûle seul

Ainsi soit-il

La flamme ne mendie pas »

No death is wasted

Each impale becomes a prayer, becomes a tale

His war, a scripture carved in ash

His love, a pyre, cruel and rash

Impaler, flame-born, thorn-enshrined

No grace shall bloom where you have dined

We kneel, to kiss the fire

Yet in the hush of cindered rain

When all his victims cease their moans

He walks alone through halls of pain

A god enthroned on broken bones

O Mesmer, lost in sovereign grief

What mother wept you into strife

What orphaned ghost, beneath your leaf

Still calls you kin beyond this life