There must have been a teacher who hid behind his dislike for the gods and customs. And their mothers were not quick to challenge his lisp, unlike the lizard’s, ill-intentioned. This false sage drew evil from fresh hopes and gave that dark spirit a name, even.
Their children grew to be faithless, wanton. Unmindful of the time before the portage, they made sport of the words carefully chosen to make us one, as clan, as tribe, as islanders.
We of Siturani sharpen our knives and long blades in defense of tradition. Else the way we sing and dance are made subject to the whims of careless folk.
They have stood idle while the infidels among them poisoned the speech of their children. Now as warriors they call the mutol wood for their oars and spears habar or pelam or tulon. Our beloved lantoy
