When a batphone message inadvertently turns into a poetry prompt, this is the result:

 

Avechary Will Be Here Soon

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Avechary will be here soon

Currently it is Vestian 20th, noon.

As sunrise drapes summer skies in gold

Warm sands condense upon the astral threshold

 

The sands have called upon us to pursue;

Seek glorious Power that our homes are due

Many perils await those of us that dare

Too much is at stake, when there's so little to share

 

We chase phantom winds in an alien plane

Only to find that it had all been in vain

For more often than not, we are pained to realize:

We've ended up sandless, from a barren breeze's demise

 

Dejected, we roam the strange lands in pain,

Until warm sands form on the astral shores again

And summer will end, then autumn will come

Providing a brief respite for some

 

But when spring ends next, it will begin anew

Sands to claim, Fire Lords to imbue

Avechary will be here soon

But right now, it's only a lazy afternoon.