Machine Pastiche

Old albion's heart where white frost grips the golden hoard

From ancient root the harvest claims its price For timber felled a silent

From musk-laced air where titans forge their gilded chains, the

From shadows deep, a scroll uncurls, revealing gilded lies.

The veiled scroll of ages unfurls, whispering names to the global winds, as

Ancient ice, though fractured by the sun’s fierce breath, will

A golden tide flows from eastern shores, its arrival heralded by a lone star