Oh, divine creator, God of Life, Nirel
What cruelty you bestow upon all that live
That our warm souls pass into death’s cold hands
Why does love impale us with splintered spears?
Could thee not crown us too with faultless flesh?
For if thee art gold, then elves art silver
And humans copper for we tarnish first
Olive flesh crumbling into fine, sandy grains
Whilst elven kind gain a beautiful wrinkle
Though perhaps thou act without intention
Placing each creature in the blazing kiln
Crimson flames scorching the outer surface
Maybe an artist thou art not for we
Bear the fruit of thy folly in our clay
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