Laugh and laugh at Thalnok! He is easily deceived
He will never hear this song
Diminished in sense
Small of purpose

In all ways Thalnok mantles Crota, My Son
He comes to the High War, My Court
Greedy to hear me say
Welcome, child

My Son Crota, Hope-Eater, I taught him
with cold edge and spiteful word
To ask for nothing

I create Thalnok to My Court
So that I may observe my son
by faithful, foolish proxy

Listen —

The last true shape
depends on, asks for, venerates
nothing