For its shouts at our Moon sound but sturdy plant armor;
For it mirrors sharply thrown commands, and masks tiny big-pond boats against script impurity;
For all that, may sky-high boons light up dogkind till all ponds dry up.
Conu tuin propran!
_________________
The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.