Lucky for Gnaash, find translator to make scribble into nice Achaean
grammar. Lucky also for reader of following poem. Gnaash sure even
Tenebrus would approve.

Landing of the Merchant Fleet, version 1

A grey miasma hangs above the softly lapping waves
That slap against the dark-pitched hulls and creak the oar-lock staves.
A salty mist from off the sea conceals the movements nigh
Of travel-weary traffickers from the merchant fleets outbye.
These have come from Zanzibaar, that isle of spice and silk;
Or long forgotten Kashar whence came Lucaine and his ilk;
Or other lands in distant climes as yet unknown to all
Who wonder as we wander from Harae to Denaye's Hall,
"Will we feel the kiss of ocean mist upon our brow, and when?"
The sails pull taut, the lines go out, the boom sweeps by again.
Upon the wave-soaked jetty now the merchants disembark
To set up shop in darkened stalls outside Linnaen Park.
Then off to Fish Street, Thalassa, to Prospero's Bazaar
Selling lavish portents of the day we sail afar.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Ero, in the year 452 AF.