A hazy fog descends upon my brain
My lips stutter in vocalization
As words are thieved from the situation
By the creature spotted in the soft rain

Blinded by the sight of the pure white crane
And in darkness was born this creation
Not based on pure visualization
But wrought from this sacred deep-burning flame

In blindness my soul finally can see
My ethereal gaze follows the bird
Through lands that have once been deeply shrouded

Its harmonious cry sings clear to me
The song impossible to put to word
And yet, by immortal by poets, lauded

(Petrarchan sonnet in iambic pentameter)


Penned by my hand on the 8th of Daedalan, in the year 369 AF.