Across the rolling Vashnar peaks lie trees rooted deep in earth
The northern redwoods, dead, not gone, give shelter and rebirth

The butterflies with dusky wings painted grey and black and brown
Soak up the light and warmth of sun, no rays left to reach the ground

Within the broken tree stumps is a history of strife
Cooled lava on the ground betrays what destroyed all this life

The Tsol'aa village makes its home amongst the central boughs
And south is fair Terpsichore, dancing to music only she knows

But here the ground is wet and cold; long lingers much decay
Beyond their time, it could be said, the northern redwoods stay

And yet from ash and decomposing leaves new flowers bloom
And from the wounded bark, baby beetles crawl amidst the gloom

Look closely in those dreadful gashes to glimpse the tree's pale heart
The funereal butterflies oversee the birth of Nature's greatest art

Wondrous mysteries are the seasons of winter, spring, summer, and fall
And through the mystery of death, new life is brought forth to us all

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Chronos, in the year 645 AF.