As the literary catacombs of New-Santhala's library are located on the more familiar Sarvonian continent, much of the poetic musings collected are owed to Sarvonian matters by Sarvonian people. This, however, does not act as a limitation to the Compendium's vast reach, extending to the equally wonderous depths of Nybelmarian literature - a sampling of which is avaliable here. Whether examples of Classical Krean lyric, Zhunite elegies, Faen songs or even obscure poems from the Ancient Tiquaitan, the rich variety in this continent's poetry is not to be understated.


Below enclosed are a whole manner of poems spawned from the now lost Peninsula of Shar on the exotic continent of Nybelmar. Expressing everything from political opinions on the wars of the time, to trading sanctions, the predictable weather, the grandeur of the scenery and even the importance of a few special pieces of Flora and Fauna to the inhabitants.


This poem (translated into Tharian from the original) has drifted through to us from the Ancient Krean of Nybelmar, through many centuries and thousands of leagues of ocean. Written as a peace offering to a friend with whom the poet had an argument, the poem argues that it is precisely because one loves that one should not shy away from difficult but necessary conversations.

‘Looking deeply,’ as the lines encourage us to do, we see that the poem encapsulates a very Krean view of life in that it reminds us to see past the surface into the beauty ensconced in every moment, in every challenge. It reminds us that there is peace in every step – that peace is every step.

To quote a well-known passage from an unknown Krean traveller: ‘I try to remind myself that – whatever they might teach us here in the world - the sun IS still there, smiling, and that this is but a fleeting cloud. And I remind myself that however big or menacing the cloud, it cannot obscure the sun forever. And that perhaps next time I will not only know but see that the sun is still there, and will have learnt to gaze right past the cloud and into the sun, and see that its heart and my heart remain one...’

Across the sea amass the clouds;
Together come thunder and lightning
Like giants riding howling wind;
Descends the rain so swift and cold.

Where now the songs of Spring? Where now?
Where now the dancing day? Where now?
But there is beauty too in storm
If only we would deeply look.

The tree was once content beneath
Clear sky, unchallenged canopy
Crowned in sun-sparked silence, swaying.
It now resents the wind, I know.

I know. Just now I heard it ask:
Must argument to argument
Like lightning to earth attach?
And leave the ground charred in its wake?

Though now the tree has dug in root,
Though now from wind it turns away,
Though now it spurns the rain,
I know that it needs water still.

For though the sky now shakes, though now
Rivers rebel and flood their banks,
Though now the tree resents the wind -
Friend! There is beauty too in storm.

Please friend, look deeply – it rains now
To bend with fruit the growing bough
The bloom matures, with ripeness fills -
Yes, there is beauty too in storm.


The words of a Lillivear Priestess with reference to the Light's Umbrella, the most common tree which could be found in the Jungles of Shar.

Oh mighty tree of mighty seed,
Oh Strong and resolute,
Our Ankriss’ will expressed in thee,
In leaf, in branch, in root,

Your flaying leaves of brilliant green,
A crown upon your bust,
Embellishing this hefty chest,
Our stares of awe- a must,

And whilst there are much prettier trees,
And trees with greater gifts,
Without umbrella’s hand to guide,
The foliage of Shar- a rift,

The staple of divine design,
Our goddess’s foundation,
The root of all the jungle’s charm,
And thus- our adulation.


A Krean poet's testament expressing the typical Krean opinion with regard to Viaquis after their wars - wars which allowed the Viaquis to garner up enough wealth to turn the the subsequent three centuries into their "Golden Age", but caused significant damage the Krean economy.

To satirise the Golden Age,
That is such a task,
An underlying cheated rage,
With a comic mask,

Indeed, difficult it is,
To slander Viaquis well,
But with a tongue soft as this,
Insults need not to swell,

But while we fall into a depression,
And former foes rejoice,
Our secret hate, public repression,
To hide loathing is choice,

But while our coffers lay unfilled,
From loot that they have stolen,
This poet will not have revealed,
This is what makes them golden.


One of the more light-hearted poems in the collection, a popular rhyme amongst children of the Shar peninsula that is still sometimes heard by the Faen merchants who specialise in trading exotic pets and livestock.

Oh Jupa, Jupa, Jupa Ape,
Always with the quick escape,
Stealing fruit, hope no one sees,
Fleeing up the giant trees,

Oh Lukri, Lukri, Lurkinam,
Danger in the grass,
If you spot the red and black,
You better run- and fast!

Oh Le’tan, Le’tan, Le’tan Bird,
Singing in the noon,
The sweetest melody through the day,
From rise of sun to rise of moon,

Oh Yepran, Yepran, Yepran toad,
Leathery monstrous thing,
We see the majesty you possess,
When your whistles sing!

Oh Jupa, Jupa, Jupa Ape,
Always with the quick escape,
Stealing fruit, hope no one sees,
Fleeing up the giant trees.


An Aesteran man addressing the poison industry in the peninsula, a pratice that exploded in popularity as the Krean managed to learn more and more about the nature of their natural environment.

Surrounded by leagues of green delight,
A cacophony of colour,
A cornucopia of texture, taste,
Incomparable to any other,

A playground of wildlife,
An expansive Fauna’s embrace,
Oh teeming with such beauty,
It is impossible to face,

So why must we start extracting?
To boil, slice and powder,
Producing morbid vials,
Is this what grants us power?

Oh indeed, this is a foolish move,
To make deaths commodities,
Removing our grim subservience,
And to satisfy what needs?

While a little bit of liquid,
Might kill, say one, oppressor,
Our choice to make such vile stuff,
Can’t make us any better.



"Herool’s Prowl" is a song/poem recited by many Zhunite children. It relates to the story of Herool, a huge fabled Seawyrm which had the ability to talk telepathically to his victims before luring them into his trap. In the tale he would lure swimming children to a hidden place with promises of treasure, and would devour them. It is supposed to teach children the importance of suspicion and to forget your own greed. It is also, more blatantly, a warning of the children to avoid the dangers of the coast, Seawyrm or otherwise...

Herool, Herool,
You hear his song,
Herool, Herool,
So sweet and long,

Herool, Herool,
Tells you his lies,
Herool, Herool,
The follower dies,

Herool, Herool,
Ignore the beast,
Herool, Herool,
Forget his treats,

Herool, Herool,
Forget your greed,
Herool, Herool,
Retreat with great speed,

Herool, Herool,
You think you’re a winner,
Herool, Herool,
Has made you his dinner,

Herool, Herool,
You hear his song,
Herool, Herool,
So sweet and Long.


The poem disclosed is dedicated to the Memory of Vivyne Salame, a Marmarran of considerable affluence who was famed in the City for her fun-loving (often excessive) lifestyle as well as her consistent promiscuity in her younger years (before becoming a committed spouse). Araid Salame, Vivyne's brother read this public elegy outside of her funeral. Though her funeral was held within her family crypt, which he himself did attend, this address was made to her adoring public who would sorely miss her presence. Vivyne herself comitted suicide after discovering of her husband's multiple adulterous affairs. Once news of his pursuits became public, he was scorned by a majority of the City for depriving Marmarra of such a divine woman.

To Vivyne's sad family,
Who loved her first and best,
To those who broke their bread with her,
And watched each early quest,

To every long-time friend of hers,
To those who held her dear,
For those who kept her smiling,
And those who drew her near,

To each of my sweet sister’s fans,
Admirers, devotees,
Who brought her into status,
Or grovelled at her knees,

To all my sister’s lovers,
Who clutched her in the night,
To all of those who held her close,
Suppliers of delight....

Vivyne was our diamant,
Our perfect, shining pearl,
Her ever-present smile,
Encompassing our world;

The sun of her bright eyes has set,
Her laugh no longer here,
But none of these suggest that we
Forget what we held dear.

If we remember every jest,
The joy that she would choose,
Then the spirit of my sister,
We'll truly never lose.

The Choorga Song

"In Memory of Vivyne Salame", lyrics written by Decipher Ziron, music by Macar Irandir.
Format: MP3, Length: 2:05. Originally titled "Strange Land".

Click here to download the song, use right-click and "Save as..." (1.91 MB).


This poem, written by the Marmarran compendiumsit Decipher Ziron,
details his experience when he was studying the Venlaken Enclave.
He commonly boasts that a lesser man would have perished or gone insane.
The poem also refers to various famous south Nybelmarian Locations,
such as the peninsula of Shar and to various Citystates of Zhun...

Past the jungles of the west,
Birds of red and yellow,
Over seas of scattered leaves,
Rivers calm and mellow,

Further than the states of Zhun,
Over Kimbar’s song,
Past the lively Hootar harbours,
'cross beaches gold and long,

Over Marmarra's dark ancient city,
echoing from jet black stone,
leaving behind troubling witches,
their chilling screams and moans,

Into the enclave of pain and death,
it is a land of twisted power,
its armies marching in collosal terror,
A haunting presence every hour,

Venlaken is the place I speak about,
A land that lives fatality,
Shrouded in clouds of black magic,
A perverse and dark reality,

Go! Back to the shores of homely Zhun,
To the soothing Kimbar tunes,
Return to the calm and golden beaches,
the magnificance of desert dunes,

Hide back into your thick rainforests,
Stay in your lively palace,
For Venlaken, it is not beautiful,
There is only pain and malice,

Go back to your familiar havens,
Your tranquil, safer lands,
For in Venlaken you must fulfill,
The Daedhirian souls' demands,

Do not return to Venlaken's wastes,
The land of nightmares true,
Stay where the mystic terrors of the lost,
Will never again find you...



Amongst the oldest literary relics of the Ancient Tiquaitan men, this poem was written on the death bed of the revered Foreseer Anadaliaus, a highly accomplished man who devoted his life to curing the political climate of his time, something he succeeded in. Anadaliaus managed to unite the Feudal Cities of Tsu, Jirai and Chima into one, cooperative state- known as the 'Union of the Tiqua' or 'Tiquaitan'. The poem expresses Anadaliaus' optimism in the face of his own death in the strength of the union he orchestrated, a trust which seemed to be misplaced after his death with the 'Red Sunset' - the single bloodiest conflict in Tiquaitan history so shocking that it warranted almost complete obedience for thousands of years.

Descending into Gold

View picture in full size Image description. Descending into gold... Picture drawn by Ingeborg.

My life draws to an inert close,
The sun to set from where it rose,
My peak is done, my noon is finished,
The light I cradled is diminished,

The cold will quench the mighty flame,
My star-told destiny itself the same,
My flower withered, I am all but old,
My youth is spent, my body cold,

And even as I see my fate,
I can't accept the obstinate,
Though time has crushed my body's frame,
My drive and fervour stay the same,

Yet all my works can be unmade,
My footprints in the sand will fade,
It will not matter what I say,
If my Tiquaitan is sure to stay,

The resilence of Tsu beats in my chest,
And Jirai's blades are laid to rest,
Never again will Chima kill in vain,
Thus unified, we will remain,

And though my ailment will not change,
My body is the one in chains,
For as our golden sun retreats,
'Tis not my mind that it defeats,

The Tiqua has ascended from the strife of old,
And as I die, I descend into gold,

I descend into gold.


The following poem describes a problematic situation for the Royal Foreseer, a man who was expected to analyse the 'truth' found in a variety of Tiquaitan methods of divination, whilst still keeping the King himself contented.

The stars align in clearest form,
The height of moon is far from norm,
The shadows hide what tiles spell,
And speaking stones they do as well.

Oh and whilst I stare 'lo behold,
The master's orders I am told,
For constant stress to be relieved,
Our royal lord must first be pleased.

Oh yes the regal one would love,
If all alignment up above,
From stars and moon, both far and near,
Had told him what he wished to hear.

I'm certain of what I'm aware,
Those fiery moons with tactless glare,
But hidden signs within this night,
Do need not ever come to light,

Oh tragic tidings such as this,
Invade our honest monarch's bliss,
And to entertain our great King's dream,
What is there to see need not be seen.



Written by the Faen Giarelli Sipara, a famously obscure poet. There is great debate amongst the Poetpriests of the Municipen, the unversities of Tarshiin and the Enkylopedia Nybelmarianica about what, in fact, Sipara was trying to address in most of his prose. Some suggest the man may have been contemplating his own mortality, that he was addressing the political upheaval caused by the Inheritance of the Old Nation to the Regal Sextuplets, while some even assert that the man criticises the prominence of the Poetpriests in Faen life.

Ka eras ey genrai en grati
En cronan sin ti encorati?
Moranta sob ti vera en cora,
Kan tilo eras crona salora,

Faronen balarande bena sunit,
Faronen musarande bena tuit,
Eskironen cupiari yo detiari,
Kan tilo eras crona pasiari,

En vera eran cronan dalara,
En praka eran cronan hengara,
Da en vera defris faras,
Veaen manin eris feras.


"We Cannot Say"

What is the importance of freedom
In times without your love?
Quieten about your heart's truth,
When it is time to illuminate,

Speak of dancing pretty heat,
Speak of singing pretty smiles,
Forget Love and Hate,
When it is time to pass,

In truth there are times to give,
In truth there are times to have,
But in truth we cannot say,
For in the Hands of Vea we shall stay.


The Faen Herma Divus, devastated by the loss of his lover, is constantly drawn to a specific Hollowtrunk Tree in the hilly landscape of the Municipen di Fa, a tree famous for the unusually musical sounds its vacuous middle can make from rhymthic tapping. His reminiscence, however, is overshadowed only by the finality that his love has, unavoidably, gone.

We once sat under the Hollowtrunk,
In summers long since gone,
We once had struck the Hollowtrunk,
To hear its hollow song,

But sadly now in lonely winters,
The Hollowtrunk has changed,
The beauty of the song has passed,
Yet the hollowness remains,

I start to wonder now and then,
If it’s the same at all,
But doubts dissolve when song returns,
As I still hear your call,

I still sit under the Hollowtrunk,
I hear its hollow song,
And while the Hollowtrunk remains,
You are all but gone.


A popular poem by the Faen Herma Divus, illustrating the mixed reactions with regard to the arrivals of the "Holy Order of the Poetpriests" - the universal religious organization bypassing the authority of the Faen Trading Houses as an autonomous body. Whilst they are famed for the beautifully melodic myths they sing to enstill some religious reverence in the area they are visiting, they are also famed for their appraisal of Faen finances - still having the ability to issue sanctions and fines under the "Old Nation's" constitution.

The cohorts of the Order come,
Over hills a'rolling,
By the flute and by the drum,
Robed monks a'strolling,

Beware the 'ppraiser's watchful eye,
Watch out for his inspection,
Beware the tricks that he may try,
That might change your perception,

Oh, look onto those harpists playing,
Bringing children glee,
'Wonderful!' we hear them saying,
And every note is free!

Bu' whilst the Poetpriests bring song,
It is not all they deal,
For every slip-up, every wrong,
They'll soon to you reveal,

Ensure the records are up to date,
Appraisal will be raw!
Dont make the scribers too irate,
Or more we must endure!

Don't let them ever suspect a fraud,
No such calamity!
Even if I'm blessed by a Kezar lord,
Twould be the end of me!

The cohorts of the Order come,
Over hills a'rolling,
By the flute and by the drum,
Our finances they controlling...



An anonymous Evalaris poem addressing the nature of constant conflict in the continent's Seed Garden.

‘Tis not red that paints our wars,
The colour that we bleed,
‘Tis not grey that opens sores,
The colour of morose misdeed,

‘Tis not the Green of Lillivear,
The colour of wars gone by,
‘Tis not the Blue of Aestera,
The lakes, the oceans and the sky,

‘Tis wealth and coin, silver and gem,
That stains our steel with fatality,
‘Tis the colour of money that causes war,
A stark, uncompromising reality

‘Tis not red that paints our wars,
The colour that we bleed,
‘Tis the colour gold and its allure,
It is the colour of our greed.

Poems written by various team members