Three and three and three again,

burnt red and white and gray.

One of flesh, and one of bone,

and one who has no form.

One of passion, crimson hot,

One of reason, dead and cold,

And one who thinks occult.

And once again, each of them,

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to share within the fold.

A fourth sibling they forgot,

With faces of their own.

Four and once again four,

but only in the hold.

This last sibling is of stone,

The hearth, the walls, the forge,

All things that speak of home.

Within the walls stands just one,

Though faces they have four.

Within the stones, no three speak,

Nor sign nor shape nor call.

In the city we are safe,

Until our faith shall fall.

--A common chant used in Mett Vell, telling of heresy and how the walls stamp it out.