Beneath the boughs where shadows breathe,
Where roots entwine in sacred weave,
The forest stirs, its pulse a drum,
A warning whispered: "They have come."

No idle wrath, no thoughtless flame,
But Fury wrought of oaths and name;
A tempest born where silence grew,
When leaf and sky to kindred flew.

The wind becomes a sharpened cry,
The rivers churn, the branches fly,
Each thorn remembers ancient pain,
Each stone recalls the old refrain.

It is the roar of beasts unchained,
The righteous wrath the trees have trained,
The marrow-deep, unyielding stand
Of those who guard Her sacred land.

Through breath and bark, through Storm's domain,
Through thorn and fire, through grief and rain,
The forest's will in flesh shall be:
You shall not harm what lives in Me.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Aeguary, in the year 987 AF.