It Is Easy When We

I, Schooled In Misery, Know Many Purifying Rites, And I Know Where Speech Is Proper And Where Silence.

Everyone Is Ready To Speak Ill Of A Stranger.

It Is The Nature Of Mortals To Kick A Fallen Man.

No One Can Count The Terrors That The Earth Spawns, Catastrophic, Gruesome, And The Vast Arms Of The Sea Swarm With Brute Monsters Bent On Harm, And Everywhere Between The Sky And Ground Lights Bloom By Day In Flares And Sudden Bolts; And Birds And Beasts Alike Can Tell Of The Whirlwind's Whirling Wrath.

I Warn The Marauder Dragging Plunder, Chaotic, Rich Beyond All Rights: He'll Strike His Sails, Harried At Long Last, Stunned When The Squalls Of Torment Break His Spars To Bits.