I am Saelir, sapling-small,
crowned in dew-lit fern and fall,
born where misty songbirds weave
their gloaming hymns through Aalen's eave.
I know each trunk by touch, by tone,
each root that curls beneath my home,
but still my dreams drift farther south,
to marble streets and open mouth
of lime-sweet fountains, Cyrene's square,
where once I chased the summer air.

I had a friend; her name was Lyne,
her hair smelled faintly of pine wine.
We traded stones for sugared bread,
played dragon knights on garden beds,
then counted clouds till dusk was spun
and flung gold arrows from the sun.
She taught me how to whistle tunes
that echoed off the mountain runes;
I showed her how a leaf can steer
across a brook like cavalier.
Two songs entwined, two stories sown,
half forest-tongue, half city tone;
the world felt wide, but never far,
one lantern, held by twin-lit star.

Now seasons shift, the compass turns,
and grown-up talk like wildfire burns.
They trade in maps, in claims, in fears:
I only count the missing years.
Letters lost on restless breeze
flutter down like golden leaves;
yet hope, like sap, still climbs the seam
of every branch within my dream.
My voice is thin, but dawn shines through;
I save a sunrise here for you.

So, Lyne, if echoes cross the sky
and catch a wish your heart lets fly,
remember this: the grove still keeps
a hollow where our laughter sleeps.
No marching drum, no shouted plan
can hush the games that once we ran.
If paths divide and banners sway,
let kindness mark the meeting day.
May silver dew on cedar leaves
remind your heart what childhood weaves.

Cyrene's light on marble stone,
Aalen's hush of moss and cone:
both hold a place for us to be,
one branch, one fountain, running free.
When footsteps lead you north once more,
I'll wait beside the river shore;
and if I journey south to see
where echoes meet the open sea,
I'll carry songs of stream and fir
to set within your city's blur.

For I am Saelir, child yet strong,
my feet in moss, my hope in song.
Though kingdoms tilt like branches bent,
I sing for peace, not argument.
So while the forest waits to see
what roads will cross its canopy,
I plant this plea in fertile earth:
let friendship be our second birth.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Ero, in the year 992 AF.