A Maormer's Hymn to a Puddle

An ode to the memory of the Battle of Gharsornodiil, by Serpentreeve Quenaalyea of Malanenrata.

Puddle, puddle on the ground.

Alone and sad, you make no sound.

Lying there beneath Cantarnalon's Mound.

The water you consist of there is bound.

By you I sit with my serpentine Hound.

For many reasons we by you up wound.

It is a small miracle that I you found.

In the refection you give I see my ancestors swound.

When I look around you I see but the many I've downed.

Their rotting dead corpses us surround.

The greatest of which is the king they just crowned.

Jad'Vahkoor was his name, but not for more than a stound.

When I then look back at you, you look almost frowned.

Blood covers the surface of what makes memory go-round.

But it matters little, for we have still pleased he who continues to confound.

Orgnum, the God of the Serpent-Faith and he who all Aldmer gather around.