by Nick Gisburne
With every death the circle shrinks again
A hundred, left to generate a force
To save this world of worthless, mortal men
From all the grim descendants of the Norse
Immensities of shadow push and press
To break the bright perfection of the shield
A swarm, a sickness, eager to outguess
Defences they are certain soon must yield
How elegant, how hideous, the thought
That in the deep infinities of space
A hundred sacred sentinels have fought
To keep the gods of darkness from this place
Another falls, and now the ninety-nine
Preserve, protect, and pray, to hold the line
