Oh, Aeryllin, for thou art fair,
As summer's eve squandered upon vain hope,
Thy dance like mosquitos on still waters,
Thy touch, like the kiss of Ero's gnats, soft,

Let there be no reprieve, no rest, no halt,
No sickles and scythes of Phaestian's harvest,
To separate the golden wheat of love,
From the radiant chaff of thy beauty.

Penned by My hand on the 12th of Aeguary, in the year 629 AF.