Who's to buy this spice, you ask,
And won't ask questions of its sources?
Who will pay in stolen horses?
Ask the merchants of El'jazira.

What is hate, I hear you ask,
How does it weigh upon your bones?
Can you carve it into the stones?
Ask the masons of El'jazira.

In which gardens does hatred grow best?
How shall we tend its thirsty soil?
A simple trick; bend men to toil.
Ask the masters of El'jazira.

Our blood runs cold within our veins,
What filthy money paid this lease?
I look around and see only beasts,
And in their faces; El'jazira.

Who will come to our defense?
Why won't you take our gold?
Why can't you just do as you're told?
So cries the man of El'jazira.

The goats have starved in their pens,
The houses are all blackened and charred.
What land was this that was scarred?
Look around, it's El'jazira.

Who will tell tales of the sands,
Or remember how the sitar is strung?
Who will pass on our barbaric tongue?
Ask the ghosts of El'jazira.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 4th of Ios, in the year 495 MA.