Lady, fair Lady, do you hear my lamenting?
For this poet cannot supplicate in words,
No her voice is condemned, not to be heard..

I would speak of Your beauty, Your radiance, Your light!
Goodness, we could paint You and set this just right!

But Art is Evil, and so are the rest,
Your thugs wave banners and name us thus, hence...

Confused... I waken, another Mhaldor?
Deplorable!
They'll want that reputation back once more.

Targossas has fallen, or is it risen? I rightly don't know,
Yet beneath Your benevolence, and glory they glow.

Angels haunting children with nightmares and frights!
Sticking thumbs in pies for which they've no right.

Lady, fair Lady, I find myself saddened,
Your children are foolish and lately, quite maddened.

What will grow in the ruins of injustice?
A garden of insincerety and pretense, burning and listless.


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Phaestian, in the year 644 AF.