Beneath the Mist of Tenebir

No land to be loved, nor river to cheer,
Tenebir flows, more blurred than the mistiest year.
Shut thy gaze from the cursed rim of fiends,
Let the dancing flames bring sorrow to thy withering limbs.

If thou seek’st to glimpse the old moon’s gleam,
Hear Sebra’s whisper, soft as a woven dream.
But if thy tongue shall curse foul Tellawick’s name,
Then bid Eryndal bring Mezmerion, flawless in flame.

Be not beguiled by Terra’s haunting tune,
But trust the fool’s dark-sensed commune.
Let not thy mind in doubt be dressed,
The soul’s fierce longing shall grant it rest.