Yellow armor, blackened hearts,
walking ghosts from broken starts.
Every banner torn by fate,
every victory comes too late.
They call us cursed.
They call us damned.
But we still take the Emperor’s hand.
Bolters heavy.
Souls worn thin.
We march where hope won’t walk in.
We don’t get parades.
We don’t get praise.
We get mass graves and longer days.
Every brother carries names
of worlds we couldn’t save.
But we still stand.
They say luck abandoned us long ago,
left us bleeding in void-lit snow.
Geneseed flawed, destiny bent,
every prayer already spent.
But we don’t measure worth in survival.
We measure it in sacrifice.
FOR THOSE WE CHERISH!
WE DIE IN GLORY!
Say it loud through shattered vox.
Say it with broken hands on bolter stocks.
Say it while the sky is falling.
Say it while the dead are calling.
FOR THOSE WE CHERISH!
WE DIE IN GLORY!
We hold the line when fleets retreat.
We carry civilians through orbital heat.
We stand in fire so others flee.
That’s what it means to be Astartes.
We don’t run from doomed deployments.
We volunteer.
We don’t ask if we’ll make it home.
We ask where to land.
Our brothers fall in unlucky ways.
Ambushes. Collapses. Lost crusades.
Reinforcements always late,
evac coordinates already erased.
Every campaign feels like a last stand.
But we still advance.
We bleed for strangers.
We die for cities that don’t know our names.
We defend children who’ll never hear
how we screamed through the flames.
Chainswords singing requiem hymns.
Angels dying in alleys again.
Our chapter symbols crack and burn,
but our resolve does not bend.
We are not favored.
We are not chosen.
We are stubborn.
We are loyal.
We are still here.
FOR THOSE WE CHERISH!
WE DIE IN GLORY!
Not for medals.
Not for statues.
For evacuation corridors.
For hospital ships.
For one more family getting off-world.
FOR THOSE WE CHERISH!
WE DIE IN GLORY!
Our banners are stitched with last stands.
Our armor repainted with blood.
We carry grief like ammunition,
and still answer every call.
They say hope is irrational.
We call it doctrine.
When the drop pods burn through atmosphere,
we don’t pray for ourselves.
We pray for the people below.
We always have.
We charge knowing the odds.
We fight knowing the cost.
We die knowing it mattered.
That is our victory.
Yellow ghosts in the smoke.
Black hearts that refuse to stop.
Even cursed, even broken—
we protect.
FOR THOSE WE CHERISH!
WE DIE IN GLORY!
Say it when the bolters jam.
Say it when the medicae falls.
Say it when you’re the last brother standing
in a cathedral made of walls.
FOR THOSE WE CHERISH!
WE DIE IN GLORY!
We are the Lamenters.
Unlucky.
Unbroken.
And we will hold the line
DeltasCommander
