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Upon a stone where wind dares weep,

A blade stands firm in anchored sleep.

Chained not by rust, nor fear, nor fate—

But bound by blood to guard the gate.

Durandal rests, yet does not die,

It hums beneath the Pyrene sky.

No thief shall pull, no time shall bend

The will of those who do not end.

Father held the flame,

With honor etched into his name.

Grandfather carved the path,

Through storm and loss, through love and wrath.

Then came the heirs, proud and free,

With minds of stars, and souls of sea.

They walk with ghosts who light the dark,

Each step a drum, each word a spark.

Their voices echo in the chest,

Their steel lives on beneath the vest.

Not just in bone, nor flesh, nor land—

But in the grip that holds the stand.

For Roldán is not a name alone,

It’s sword, and chain, and sacred stone.

It’s every parent, every child,

The fierce, the tender, the strong, the wild.

A legacy not made by throne,

But by the hearts that won’t disown

The silent pact, the oath unspoken:

“We do not fall. We rise unbroken.”