We live among trees. Our Kings kept amber palaces, with retinues of soldiers, and of naked boys. For them, it was warm. Their garments were light, the fields yielded twofold harvests. We were a warrior race, and that remains. Look northward: we will come from the forests. Remember what we teach: all gods are cruel. We kept a calendar, sacrificed promptly to all: the sea, the seasons, and the sun. Our priests wore blue cloaks: we paid them heed. It was not enough. Without omen, except the merest trembling of the sacred grove, the water came. No one in the ports remained. No one in the palaces escaped. First, they were there: we heard the screaming. Then, they were not. Only a vast and grey ocean, unbroken by tower or tree. This curse we carry with us: the angry sea, the cold sky, bare rock. Our swords conspire against civilised peoples: our armies lay waste the temples of cruel gods. Southward, we have heard, the vines grow thick as oak trees. Southward, the cities are rich with boys.