In the place between East and West, lies the Eagle, its wings spread,
its veins run with the blood of victories and predators past defeated,
in its mouth it holds the prize, the victory of victories.
The City Of Winds, they call it.
As ancient as the pyramids, they say.
There they worship the elemental flame of life,
its followers live off the fiery, black blood of the Eagle,
as it nourishes and feeds their own life-blood.
In the Land Of Fire, the ground itself bleeds for its people.
All people flock to the land shaped by the Eagle,
all drawn by the charity of the soil, the majesty of the mountains,
drawn by the clarity of its waters, the modesty of its disciples.
They all flock to the City Of Winds.
Time is slow in the land shaped as the Eagle,
everything and nothing changes, people are the same but different,
powers rise and powers fall, the fiery, black blood of Eagle flows on,
people come and people go, drawn in and pushed away.
In the Land Of Fire, nothing is as it seems.
The disciples are gone from the Land shaped like the Eagle,
drawn elsewhere as the ground bleeds with the blood of its people,
the Eagle's life-blood feeds the victory of victories.
In the City Of Winds, there is no past, present or future.