They'd squeak in pure delight when
their best friends fall to the ground;
flesh peeling soon before they swarm
and scatter droplets all around.

And Mortal man are we,
Too brilliant to whom can we compare?
While waiting for eternity to lust
Or let our savage take us there.

Serpentine they writhe away
While squandering their pride.
Begging for mercy from soverigns
because from soverigns does love deride.

In your shame, we comdemn them.
Their love, these letters- is their call.
They will have their poetry sung to them,
Or they will have no poems at all.

- Tarinn Lee.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Variach, in the year 208 MA.