Threads (poem)
The Empire grows. The Empire grieves. Each territory we gain Is parcelled out in battlefields; each border drawn in pain. New lands bring in new burdens. Old lands traded leave new scars. The Empire grows, the Empire grieves, as constant as the stars.
Our map is stained with bile and venom, blood and sweat and tears, The mud and dust and ash and weight of near four hundred years: A thousand crumbled records, and a thousand fallen flags. We are a patchwork Empire made of tatters and of rags.
We are a patchwork Empire, stitched and torn and stitched again, We rip, we mend; we patch the rents; we try to dull the stain. We add new pieces as we can. We cut them when we must. We work, we fail, we try again. We mend. We count the cost.
And yet. A cloak of patches will still keep the pilgrim warm; A patchwork sail still steers you true before the coming storm; A tattered shroud still keeps your bones against the hungry earth; A banner threadbare from the field is heavy yet with worth.
Worth keeping and worth mending: thus says Virtue of the soul. Not whole from being made perfect, but made worthy being kept whole. We are a patchwork Empire, and our ancient stains run deep - The lives we could not salvage, and the oaths we could not keep -
But Vengeance cannot seal those wounds, nor Hatred clear our debts: In Virtue only may we knit our Empire's severed threads. Where fear has frayed us, Courage mends - where doubt has torn us, Pride. No Virtue damns us where we fail. It only asks we tried.
The Empire grows. The Empire grieves. And yet the Empire grows - Not by destroying, but convincing, those who were our foes. Be Prosperous to pay back those who lost to see we won, Be Vigilant to see the things we promised done are done; Be Loyal, fiercely, to the dream that those we fight today May yet be kin tomorrow as we bring the world the Way.