An enigmatic thing, the fate
of this world in stress and storm:
In none but men of seething mettle
will fate reveal its form.
From seething mettle Alexander's
sword dawned on the land
To blaze on high, and melted down
the mountain of Alvand.
From seething mettle came torrential
Timur's conquering flood.
Such mighty waves make nothing of
the land's vicissitude.
The cry of prayer, the cry of war
from men of God who trod
The battlefield, in seething mettle
became the Voice of God.
Yet little more than meager moments
are granted to the brave,
A breath or two in time against
the deep night of the grave.
"The Valley of the Silenced ends
the road of every man.
Seethe and resound beneath the vault
of stars, while yet you can."