Irawn, darling, you fickle fiend
there's much you need to learn.
Like the joys of leaving darkness
and feeling fire's purifying burn.


You made a start, I do confess,
in finding that there's nothing divine
in the murder of innocent children.
Now, instead, you hunt me and mine.

Still, my dear, you need to know
that I am so often all alone,
there should be no good reason at all
that you cannot attack me on your own.

If you like, call all your friends,
and together, conspire, whisper and plan.
Just do not blame Hematurgy rituals
when you can no longer call yourself a man.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Midsummer, in the year 140 MA.