In Dhaz Mitrine the sweetgrass grows
The sickles harvest to and fro
We search and reap, oh how we try
This herb's worth more than gold can buy
It hurts to learn how slow it grows

And so we head into the throes
Onslaughts of battles, waves of foes
Waves in the Balance, like blades of grass
In Dhaz Mitrine

So take the Dhurive, sword, and Co.
Each change is etched in kai, blood's flow
Of Life: it's yours, for which we die
The Rhythm we cannot deny
There is no rest for those who reap
In Dhaz Mitrine


Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 11th of Lanosian, in the year 474 MA.