I have seen your sons, O hidden Oast, fresh-limbed in their pride, as they climb the hills to the high places above the city, ecstatic in their defilement. You have made them to pass through the fire and stand before the Asherath poles in the dawning. O shadowed Oast! Brilliant star of the morning! No greater jewel adorns the earth, no rarer carbuncle; but, within your gild and your gauds, you have rotted. You have thronged your streets with pimps and panderers, spread your skirts across the river valleys. Great was your glory and great shall be your defilement, a terror to all the nations.
You count yourself safe among your neighbours. “Who shall move against me?” you say. “My treaties protect me; my armies are unequalled.” But I say to you, you are not loved, nor are you feared. Your friends come to you like weak men in love with a whore, scattered at the first sign of trouble. Your enemies laugh at your table and plot against you over your golden wine. Your prideful sons are soft with easy living, your sentries heavy with rich food. In the councils of the mighty you are a laughingstock. All who speak of you twist their mouths, as though to say, “I speak but metaphorically.”