Cyrene,

In a Fellowship Hall in Delos, exile,
ay ink a few lines,
dedicated to the city of the Vashnars.

In Delosian Hall ay wrote, Allegro!
in my tadpole days, first
of a life's work lines.

Older, a gentlegrook fine
through your streets, City,
ay composed my rhyme.

Lucciano taught me chords,
Scarlatti heard my tones
resound and die in the snow.

Hisself todaye 'as faded away,
Ay met you, ladies, of a Senate.
ay tried all a grook like me may.


And death, and traps, my Templesong!
What 'ave ay seen of you, Cyrene?
The deep toll of your bells and gongs,

To send away my life and work,
from a garden ay tried to make me home


When my piano cried its last,
ay fell to my knees.
Who of you, Cyrenefolk, was there to hear it?

From your warm halls, inside its walls
Did you hear the pianist fall?


Say Traitor, say Idiot. Lunatic,
ay betrayed your wills, City
for my love of Music.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Miraman, in the year 379 AF.