Storm from o'er the mountainside,
Gaining power as it falls.
Falling down into the valley,
Beats against the valley walls.
It's rage is spent, poured into rivers,
Which rage again until they can rage no more.

I own one thousand books, you know,
And every one is bent and dog-eared.
My library is not a diamond-forged castle,
To be seen but ne'er ever touched! Oh no,
My library is a garden toolshed,
Books cattered about upon the shelves.
The only ones left in pristine condition,
Are the ones that are quite a bore.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Glacian, in the year 341 AF.