Deep within the Southern Mire,
Weaves the River red with Ire.
Mists as thick as blood persist
Over every warp and twist,
Shrouding shoots of Weeping Weed,
Rotting Root, and Sorrow's Seed.
Here a slave is said to dwell,
Bound in chains and bound by spell!
Charm enchanting eyes to see
The world around as fantasy—
Feeling thorns as pricks of bliss,
Hearing howls as naught amiss,
Smelling rot as sweet perfume,
Tasting death but never doom—
Senses tricked by hate untired,
Lost am I within the Mire.