O, Silent Drifter, think not much of my verse
I seek not to complicate
As to keep terse

Wishes and Hopes, you cannot eliminate
With luck, your head, they will burst
Or conflagrate

Lo, this is beyond the point I'd like to make
Black City, to Hatred first
With Anger, quake

To spit at me, from thy darkness do you creep
A regurgitated curse
From sleepless sleep

Awaken, Lost Souls of vile Black City
Should thy Damnation reverse
Shallam knows not Hate, but Pity

Freely and Truly,
Narcissus Rousseau, Imithian

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Valnuary, in the year 524 AF.