Split in two, right through the middle,
A smiling reflection - a widow’s riddle.
Her king, her chains, her cruel oppressor,
He walks alive, yet death’s successor.

The circle is closed, the serpent tight,
Its tail in its jaws, locked in the night.
The moon bleeds red - innocence slain,
Two halves remain, yet none of them sane.

One is the daughter, the other-the son,
A balance undone, a fate overrun.
The king laid them bare, a gift to his shade,
A sacrifice deep in the darkness he made.

And all rejoiced as time slipped by,
For silence was worth far more than a cry.
The rest chose blindness, turned away,
pretending night was light of day.

But they knew not - a wonder came,
The son rose up from death and flame.
His flesh was mortal, bound to decay,
Yet his spirit no blade could slay.

His curse - to wander, torn inside,
A soul in doubt, yet none to guide.
Is he of virtue, or darkness grim?
The light of the Morning Star burns in him.

The Fallen dared not test his might,
For he was shaped in HIS image bright.
He feared his wrath, so fierce, so true,
A blaze that even night once knew.

White or black, as above, so below,
No god may stand without a foe.
The king chose blood, his will was steel,
Yet in his death, new life was sealed.