Thereupon a bed of grass, 'neath boughs most great and grand,
Fia of the Garish Blade made her final stand.

A pox upon the world was she, a pox upon our souls!
A river of young blood she drank, a river gold she stole.

And wonder did the merry kings, to whom she made her threats;
a birthless month did she gift, a mother's babe she rent!

"I am Lord of Violence, Queen of Sin and Sand!
From the Desert did I come, from there will I stand!"

~ X ~

Such were her lies, such were her thoughts!
Such were the ways of a woman unwrought!

Unwrought by what, a man might well ask?
Unwrought by death, and the killing of her task:

For friends did she have; four friends was their number.
Younglings were they, quite fond of their slumber;

green of skin, of fang and claw;
goblins who danced, unbound by law.

"My friends are these most uncommon folk;
touch not their hides, lest I bring fire and rope!"

Thus the Desert did howl, the Desert did thunder!
In the quiet of night, green tides made first lumber;

and more indeed: like cloth and jewel,
textiles and burns, and languages too.