An excerpt from the heretical writings of Eytchpeal, son of Lord Whipple, preserved at the request of the author's father, in remembrance of his son, committed in Saint Iode's asylum in the forty-second year of the fourth era, died in the fifty-third year.
Under the roseate, cerulean, effulgent sky,
Lit not by sun but something else;
Is a garden,
A vast garden.
Both rolling hills and spreading plain.
Roses and violets and lavender lilacs
And sweet herbs compete to scent the air.
The sky never darkens nor ever rains,
But the light though hidden is always fair.
And where not once a single human foot
Did tread
By sparking river and silver dew,
And cerulean lakelet and whispering brook,
No human mind did see and wonder,
And no human eye deign or dare to look.
Butterflies flit and bees hum,
And touch upon some other lip.
And lilies and tulips and bright irises
Compete for the right to nurture, and provide
That pool of nectar that they might sip.
And in this garden,
This vast garden,
The little Prince ruled.
The sparkling rivers offering up
Their shining water, wheat and barley, their grain
And the roses their perfume, all the while pining;
That the bees would hurry and piece their honey
For their Prince's gain.
Hickories offer up their nuts, and yellow yews their scarlet fruit.
No meat needed over a fire, no ash or smoke or soot.
Only the garden is needed, the plants generously give
Their bounty, the Prince for his part content,
Grateful to be given all he might need to live.
When he is done chasing the butterflies, purple, blue,
Gold butterflies, he asks the flowers, of many hues
Where he came from, for he forgets.
But roses are naive, and busy always courting bees.
And so the Prince, casting a new and wider net,
It seems it is the trees he needs.
The walnut tree is old and knows much,
Many trees do, taking their time to grow,
In doing so, having ample time, to think,
To wonder, and reflect, and know.
Here child, sit down, yes that root of mine right there.
Please eat something, no I insist, no trouble at all.
And so a breeze comes, and a walnut falls.
And so a walnut drops, easy to crack
By a wind, which steals a chance
To tumble through its Prince's hair
Uncle Walnut, from where did I come?
Ah, this I know and remember well!
I am reminded by this myrtle here, and that fern!
You have come from a thing called Man,
And from a place called Nirn!
