A distant roar of pounding blood
riots in drums, my sisters, my brothers;
ears to the ground, eyes to the sky -
the streets sing cries muffled by others,
by words aired through ivory teeth:
"There is no plot; there is no fear.
There is nothing to see or hear.
There is no fire or flood or fury."

Spite and hexes pave shaved veins
as the next blades fall on gilded sheaves.
My throat is raw, red and void, while
towered voices proclaim from eaves
in squared forums, on walled streets:
"There is no game; there is no shake.
There is nothing to push or take.
There is no fire or flood or fury."

Sickly serpents' smiles make laces;
vitriol and hemlock offers
plaster pages, books and faces,
slicking palms no pilgrims proffer.
And lo! My poor brothers repeat:
"There is no con; there is no lie.
There is nothing to flee or fight.
There is no fire or flood or fury."

But here comes the heat;
here comes the wave;
and when stands the Beat
like blocks in our way -
when the other shoe drops,
what role will we play?

"It is now," sings the pyre!
"We are here," screams the blood!
Over-stoked is the fire;
so provoked is the flood
that ev-e-ry step
resounds with a thud -
and we cry:

Here's the fire!
We're the flood!
This is fury!

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Daedalan, in the year 995 AF.