The breath of this veil of silver
is the touch of dew and day.
And all the while, like wind-blown birds
we nest in her burbling branches.

The waters sing with the singing of Shai
and the singeing of boar in the morn.
We break our fast and break their bones,
the smoke of bold prayers borne aloft.

The nooning hours are bright indeed,
hidden by ruddy westerly reek,
made for marching over murky mounts
and tiresome western streets.

But when eventide's gloam is in Sundown loam,
I lay staff aside and smile.
For beside this river running and roaming
I know here I can rest awhile.



Penned by my hand on the 25th of Lupar, in the year 630 AF.