Make sure, little children, check under your bed,
For vines may be watching with ears that are red,
Is that fog you can smell, rising up from beneath?
It seems a far scent away from perfume of Her Leaf.

The Red One returned, raining wrath at His Flock,
They cried, lost their titles, so ran away from His Fog,
Sleuthing to a small village, so green and naive,
Oblivious to it nigh being of an ill eve.

So, all those who are joyful, probe cupboards and floors,
As who knows who is listening, a little more, a little more,
Defence of Her Forests are no longer their strife,
Their stems now bent to advancement of sentient life.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Miraman, in the year 947 AF.