Oh, little poet, hidden in rhyme,
Do you think in these verses you waste our time?
Your whispers of secrets, your veiled little song,
It's clear you don't know where you truly belong.

You speak of red fog and vines with such flair,
But your knowledge is thin as the mist in the air.
If you've words to convey, then be bold and declare,
Don't hide in the shadows, step up if you dare.

Your musings are twisted, your tale misconstrued,
You think yourself clever, but you're only bemused.
In battles and struggles, where true courage is told,
Your presence was fleeting, your actions were cold.

Perhaps it's a task for your new house to complete,
To spin such tall tales, neither funny nor neat.
So drop the facade, leta see who you are,
Or stay in your madness, an echo from afar.

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Miraman, in the year 947 AF.