'Desolate wasteland; infernal depiction of Hell'

These phrases my feelings tell,

At that moment.

Enough suffering for a rebellion to foment,

Enough death for corpses to ferment,

Enough despair to drown a desert.

Plague did hurt,

Alta Mirah received unjust dessert,

A city of noise turned silent.

Plague, the beast pacifistically violent,

Sometimes noisy, sometimes silent,

Yet eternally brutal.

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Beginning with symptoms subtle,

It turns skin to metal -

Veins to quicksilver!

Plague is the Reaper's server,

One who can't be bribed by silver,

Regardless the amount.

Before the Western Plain became Corpses' Mount,

With deaths too many to count,

I had to resolve the crisis.

Nothing is certain but death and taxes,

Wounds must be cauterised before sets in sepsis,

Cut losses must be.

All did I see

Was a lost city,

Plague must be purged.

In Alta Mirah, plague will surge,

If the city is not to be purged,

And this became my unfortunate duty.

I started a fire, smoky and sooty,

The fire spread like a pirate after booty,

I forced myself to watch.

I had to stay, lest the burning be botched,

But afterwards, a ride I hitched,

On a farmer's cart, he was headed to the East.

I hoped the rest

Of the plains of the West,

Were free from the Plague.