I, the People-Watcher,
Have given my orders,
Done my duty to Old,
Through a blizzard of blades were the Devils fought and conquered,
So that the People may prevail.
She, the Bird, messenger of Old,
Thrower of blades,
She slumbers not through the ever-silent nights
Upon my order does she act,
Simply a toy to be used and tossed at whim
Bancha on Earth
Views the Autumn scene blearily.
Falling leaves block his sight, mercifully,
He cannot witness the carnage in its whole.
The wind breezes past him, the air
Sickly sweet.
His world becomes momentarily brighter
As his sister bathes the world in light. Little Oba.
Bancha wonders,
How was she doing these days? With Valka
Trapped leagues under the surface, exiled in the Depths
They had said he had been scheming with Devils, yes,
They had said, but they, they were Devils themselves,
Crushing the path of expression, traditionality their only method of survival
Perhaps New and Old had crossed in unfathomable ways,
New Devils and those of Old,
The People-Watcher,
The Bird,
The People