She calls her like the desert ground.
But berries to her face.
She claims to need the compassion
sighs with relief when she's away.
And when she's cruel to you, Young one
you only smile and grin.
her sister and mother don't understand;
So her little brother gets to win.

He leaves for centuries, returns so brief
she can't recall his face.
And when her needs are brandished
she cannot find another to fill the place.
Not sorry, but somehow she preens
so proud, so calm; so vain.
and when she turns to you for hugs.
You say "it's okay" and then her name.

After she's finished her crying,
you make her laugh, when she understands.
You could save her from herself,
but you've given her you, Her little man.

- I'd stick it on your present -




Penned by my hand on the 25th of Haernos, in the year 208 MA.