To my faithful Yvie,

Withdraw your hand, let Wynnie's bloom remain;
its pungent awe wakes relics best at rest.
No proof you seek lies in that scented stain,
our saints already bear the scarlet test.

In amber glass we house each wilted tale:
petals once worn by knights lost to grace,
buds crushed beneath a ring whose luster pales,
these relics crown the table in their place.

Guard, then, the shred of velvet she still owns,
lest righteous zeal flay dignity to bone;
for verdicts swung like censers split the tones
of solemn hymns to raw and fractious groan.

Take heed and care: a single votive set askew
can spill its wax on priest, on guest, on pew.

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Mayan, in the year 988 AF.