YELLOW
My soul skips,
the beat of the drum,
grainy in my pulse.
I can nearly hear
the Pied Piper's pipes,
flirting with my ears,
the dogma of my father,
droning nos, like bees,
before they sting as one,
and still the Piper's won.
I will go towards the sun.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Khepary, in the year 131 MA.