Interred in foreign soil a fathom deep,
But not a corpse, unfeeling. Not so numb
That when, into her darkened room they come,
She, with bright eyes shut, pretends to sleep.

She smells of sweat and blood and clammy rock.
Our mother sings us songs of sun and sky,
Of Ceylon's verdant woods, of mountains high.
Elara, mother, teach us how to talk

About the future in a voice of hope.
We are bastards all, beneath the lash
The ormyrr crack our heads, but not your will.
We hold you sacred in the grandest scope.
When Krenindala falls to fire and ash
Your children of the scale are standing, still.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Mayan, in the year 907 AF.