At last the sun sets on the trees
Not in theory

The mountain Spires before my eye
Not by scry

In tomes, seekers seek below
Though not I

For I was the buried thing

So here I am
Where winds can find me
Here I stand
No earth above me
Bookshelves full
And morals? How dull

Mother, if you read this
I reject you as my regis

Djeir is where
No longer there

By now, though, you're aware


Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 25th of Lleian, in the year 19 AC.