In caverns deep and tunnels low,
I seek the eerie purple glow.
'Midst reeking, stinking piles of dross,
There gladly grows the healing moss

I skirt a foul and bloody pool
Breathing air that's dank and cool,
Ripe with fungus spores untold.
Taste the heavy stench of mould.

It's darker now and deeper in,
I feel a bat's wing brush my skin.
The floor is rank with loathsome mire -
The ache for fresher air is dire

Ancient, weighty, ponderous stone,
Pressing down on flesh and bone.
Rocky fingers wet and grasping,
Clutch my soul to leave me gasping.

But moving through this Knish-home tomb,
I harvest moss from room to room.
At long, at last the work is done!
I shed this grave to find the sun.

Climbing upward, ever higher
To the light, O' happy flyer!
With joyful heart, I wheel, I fly -
Scribe exultation on the sky.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Aeguary, in the year 467 AF.