Red Lady, full of Death,
Speak to me of death-no-more,
Let the painful promises spill,
Like blessings from Your lips,
Sluicing from Your hips,
Down many legs like whips.

Black Lady, full of Void,
Speak to me of emptiness,
Let it echo like a scream,
Split me wider, seam-to-seam,
Till my marrow all but gleams.

White Lady, full of Woe,
Speak to me of agony,
Lancing, dancing, white hot pain,
Rendering to mush, my brain,
Leaving but a pallid stain.

Green Lady, full of Hate,
Speak to me of ichor, still,
Dribbling, dripping down inside,
Churning guts, a slickened glide,
Till I'm all but ossified.

Your Pilgrim, let me testify.

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 24th of Chakros, in the year 494 MA.