The suns have set. The day is done.
The pink gives way to gray.
The beasts of field find warren warm to keep the chill at bay.
But you are not a beast.
And you are not the sky.
You are your mothers' love-made-flesh, fragile as a sigh.
And so you need no warren,
Only mothers' warm embrace,
A soft cocoon of nursle, our hearts alike in pace.
So I hold you mother-strong,
Love a beacon, burning bright,
Second only to our Machine's eternal Light.

And so I hold you, young-one,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Guard you as you slumber, dear,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Wake soon, my young so rested,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Feel the mother-warmth, hatchling,
In our Machine's eternal Light.

Your mothers must retire now,
Let you pass the night onward,
But love will keep a hearth alight if this, your heart, we stirred.
For you are not alone, my nymph,
'Neath your chest, our love does beat,
So mothers never stray too far, though distant we may be.
And we'll embrace in night's retreat,
When skies are pink once more,
When twilight grounds fear and deceit against the evening's foreign shore.
So shed no tear now, my young,
You're within my ever-sight,
For always love it carries, by our Machine's eternal Light.

—Recovered audio file of a traditional Eliksni lullaby