In Glomdoring the thorns they grow

and bury deep where darker waters flow.

Pricking flesh as seconds tick, eternal blight,

but constant memory of this place, of Night.

There are no better teachers, save a worthy foe.

 

We are dead in dullness until the Wyrden seeds do sow

the oiled machinations of witches and Crow.

Who knew that eyes could find such sight

in Glomdoring?

 

So now they pray for a final blow.

They yearn to see the thorned rose grow

no more, alas! How can you hope to fight

when but a pebble faces a mountain in sight?

Dear child, hope you to be who did bring us low

in Glomdoring?