O wail of the wastes, O shriek without throat,
Screm of the blighted dune, I name thee holy.
Teeth like famine. Hide like ruin. Eyes like drought.

You who loathe the breath-bound,
You who scorn the pulse,
Pack-born of paradox,
Hatred made clever-
You are the sacred enemy.
You are the riddle in the throat of the desert.

Praise be the sandclaw.
Praise be the disjointed stalk.
Praise be the gnashing chorus in the dusk.

Teacup Screm, smallest desecration-
First among none.
Hidden within the heel-crack,
Unsummoned by wind nor by lance.
Ati unsees you.
I do not.

O Screm, gnash at me.
Teach me contempt.
Teach me to strip the soul from a name.
Make of me a carcass that walks.

I will not flee.
I will not beg.
I will walk into your hive with open arms
And offer up my love as meat.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 16th of Lexadian, in the year 11 AC.