My protege, the subject of this ditty,
your missives were so smart and witty.
Unlike most women I have known,
Your rings aren't worn, instead are grown.
Your legs won't let you run away,
Your roots will never fade to grey.
At least you can give thanks for this.

Though your smile is something that I miss,
I much prefer your breezy peace.
You charming thing, you had loose morals,
and now you hang out with the laurels.

This context I'll no longer push -
You're not a mhun. You are a bush.



Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Daedalan, in the year 572 AF.