The Ecteiroglyphs of the Lorwolm

In the ladder gyre in the Age of the Bunin Kings:

Behold, in a field thick inlaid with yellow patines of
Summer roses,
The flower of men, a fatal child driven by the deep power of joy,
Indifferent to restless violence surrounding the pendant world,
Ignorant of the bright sunset gold of painted pomp and blind
To the glare of glass thrones charged with mystic change.

A long entwisted circle of allies bound by sympathy in blood
To this Queen, will stand in her proper greatness and hold out
Against great thousands, when monarchs play the tyrants
In the barren mile of the Mediterranean's common age.

The Kindly Race, never-resting, with gentle work and
Endless care,
Diffuse the false art of ancestral sermons wreathed in
Golden theaters,
Unloosing the chained foot of cold winged Oumesan.