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There lived a girl from Azarath,
A world where dark is light,
And all its people fell to Trigon's wrath,
Except the girl named Raven the White.

Her obsidian hair spills like ink in the wind,
From beneath her azure atrimental hood,
And her aura flickers with her soul that's twinned,
With a crow that burns black like firewood.

I found her floating in the bony light of a winter night,
Hovering with legs crossed and sombre eyes shut tight.

She wore an onyx amulet that drifted before her chest,
As it shimmered in a globe of sable phosphorescense.

I felt her see me from beneath the shadow of her pointed cowl,
And she pulled off her hood to reveal a wincing subtle scowl.

I frowned, as she did, and then she began to smile,
Revealing the rarity of a grin for an evanescent while.

She said: "Here's a spell I have for you, for when you're feeling down,
Although when you say this incantation you'll feel like an alien clown."

And then she pulled from beneath her garb a rolled up scroll,
And dropped it before my feet and vanished into a blackened hole.

I opened the raveled parchment and words began to appear,
In narrow cursive and severe shaped letters embossed in gold veneer.

It read:
 Azarath Mentrion Zinthos,
Carazon Rakashosh Endurin,
Visiric Zendrian Azarath,
Azarath, AZARATH, AZARATH.

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