Grays #24 - Rondeau of the Orquida

The mists do sift
  This transient rift.
A minstrel of the wheel,
​  Our stitches will heal,
Sown into the heart of the gift.

Lessai of the shift,
  The Old Code of the drift,
Guardians of the Seal.
A pierce to glare.

A spirit might lift,
  Though the seas might list, 
A weighted grip must feel,
  As in home, as in steel.
As in the gate to the broken rift.

Bury the needle into the seed, 
  And sow the future we desperately need.