Absorb the starlight, embrace the moon!
The ever-tanking mage's doom.
Taking in a dragon's thu'um,
Soul's energy's battery fighting gloom.
The Atronach sings a merry tune,
When spells like flowers blossom and bloom.
After all is given in a final surge,
When no spells are flung with which to merge,
Face to face with the inevitable scourge,
All that remains is a futile urge.
Then the Atronach's Song becomes a dirge,
When the spirit is empty, played out. Purged.
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