From the Silence of the Plow to the Clashing of Steel!

Comrades of the Path, and Lords of the Steadfast Citadels,

I have left behind the golden wheat fields, where birds once heralded the dawn,

And traded my sickle for a polished blade; for on this earth, the season of blooms is gone.

My hands, once deep in the soil to sow the seeds of life,

Now wade through the dust of trenches to endure this bitter strife.

Noble Friends,

The springs that once quenched our horses’ thirst have run dry,

And the howling wind is the only anthem beneath the winter sky.

Our rations are meager, and the frost bites deep into the bone,

But the resolve within our chests remains a fire, unyielding and alone.

The "Fire" we guard upon the ramparts demands its fill of fuel,

And our weary hearts seek the strength of your support in a world so cruel.

Generosity is not merely gold; it is the lifeblood for those who bear the shield,

With your aid, we weather the storm; with your grace, we hold the field.

So, you who dwell in the warmth of hearth and the safety of walls,

Grant us what you can of "Gold" or "Bread" before the darkness falls.

For every coin placed in our palm is a bolt against the foe,

A shield that wards off the treachery of fate where the bitter rivers flow.

Let not our flame flicker out in the gale’s relentless cry,

For your brother in the hollow, without your hand, is left to die.

Thanks all