Abhor my pretenses; my Lords, lift this haze,
Courage, Your gift and my guide through the deep,
Recall the romance of dreamers, asleep,
Oh, how we danced those poetic ballets,
Sing my lament, young poets take warning,
Tragedy lifts as the soul sinks to grief,
Inter and fall with me, leaf after leaf,
Cold days of mourning, roses, but thorning,
Piercing the veil, but requires a groom,
Others see gardens awaiting a seed,
Environs like soil, warm sunlight or gloom,
Tries every nut in his struggle to bloom,
Rescues the troubled in moments of need,
Yellow birds sing with a friend in the room.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Aeguary, in the year 639 AF.