The howls of the hellhounds pierce the scorching hot air,

Bairaz stills for a moment, Fetch urges him to go,

When the hunt comes for a horse, they don't stop and stare.

They must be swift now, they cannot risk to be slow.

The hellhounds on their trail, they begin gaining quick,

It won't be long until they face the furnace's wrath.

When Bairaz, now desperate, figures out a trick;

Undergrowth blooms over stone behind the two's path:

It grows from nowhere, a curse turned to a blessing

For nature heeds the Wild's call as if he's its own,

From hunt, the need to run is no longer pressing

Thorny green plants for now grow on the molten stone.