Sunken beneath the waters of the Thrullmere, An ancient village home to an ancient race, Sunk by the powers of one mightier than me, Who sunk the village of Pagea?

She came second of all divinities, Third to rise out of the darkness, Her touch is felt by the apples, Her people dwell by the sea.

I was once a servant in this street, A street beneath the southern skies, A street which leads to the southern sea, A street which starts with its name.

Daughter of the Warriors, Blessed by the Time, Among the Halls of Fire and Rainbow Arches, By the Sands of the South, Which goddess am I?

I dwell in the forest, surrounded by my folk, I carry in my hand, a staff made of oak. What is my true name?

A dark hill exploding into flame, A forest glowing red with fire, Stars forming a figure eight, A glowing blade falling into a yellow fire, A tree growing into a dragon from inside out, Exploding into a million pieces of fire.

In the first creation of the god of time shall you find me, Holding a thousand of my tiny charges, East is the direction, north of the south, Beside forgetfulness and near to the lamb.

Both day and night I stay in bed, Yet never sleep nor rest my head, I have no feet to skip or hop, And yet I run and never stop.

I am the little thing that goes forth alone, And comes back in a line with my brothers.

Something I tell, With never a word, I keep it well, Though it flies like a bird.