Dear friends, now heed him for a fleeting breath,
Phainon lies dying, his flame fades away,
The farce he called his life ends in dismay,
A Chrysos Heir, he leaves a will in death.
His thoughts like embers, scattered on the wind,
This night will wail with Thanatos' grim call,
As Okhema’s shades chant prayers for his fall,
Yet calm he seems, though fate was never kind.

Of what does Phainon die? He’s poisoned through,
By dreams of breaking Amphoreus’ cruel chain,
He scorned the lies that bound him to its reign,
Content? No, desperate, yet his heart was true.
What matters now? He reached his saga’s end,
A tale both grim and fleeting in its spark,
A hero’s life, absurd, lost in the dark,
He dies, and we remain, his path to mend.

He summons all, dear friends, to mourn his fate,
In finest garb, as if to celebrate,
A cosmic rite, yet bids you designate
Six Ravagers and Nanook’s cold dictate.
Let hollow vows and incense cloud the air,
Unkept oaths echo, cosmic din resounds,
Spare not, dear sinners, curses that abound,
To frame this jest with sacrilege’s glare.
Then call a schemer, cloaked in “I knew not,”
A weaver like Aglaea, fate’s cruel art,
A lord with gilded thrall to play the part,
And one who trades her soul for gold’s dark lot.
An honest fiend, reborn in cosmic guise,
A zealot pure, yet masked in savior’s grace,
Who claims the stars but holds a tyrant’s place,
And thinks herself the master of the skies.

And for the close of this grim cortege’s line,
Let all intone a false and hollow prayer,
To mourn that fool who dared to dream and care,
With “marameo” in cosmic chant’s design.