Well met again, bright angel! For thou art
As glorious to this troubled orcale, being lower than my chops,
as a winged butterfly of Desna
Unto the dark reaching starless eyes
Of a mortal that falls back in golden gluttony,
touched by dwarven magic cast from puffy clouds
That sail upon the bosom of the air.
Lissandra Glissander, wherefore art thou Kobold?
Deny thy race and refuse thy treachery.
Or, if thou wilt not, be but human in my eyes,
And I’ll no longer hate your fellows.
Thou are thyself, but tainted by thine own,
in deed complicit, in league with snakes.
Lissandra, what’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
But Kobold is as Kobold does, Dragonheart,
and heart so rendered, now broken bittersweet.
How blind I was, bescreened in lust
So stumbled on my innocence, thou dost
revile me to my very soul, that I must turn from thee,
and in the treasured bowl now trust.
Lissander Glissander, wherefore art thou Kobold?