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In What Season Are you Now?


[ 12] Cirth: In what season are you now? ...... (Poetry)
Tue Jan 6 09:26:40 1998
To: all
Paved with leaves they were the ancient paths I walked alone,
spoken to by evening winds and dying trees and withered stone.
Carefree, singing she approached while I whispered to my ghosts.
Drowning sun and melting sky while her laughter chased away my hosts.
Passing by she ruffled me and left an impish grin.
Ill-humoured I informed that indolence is a deadly sin.
Merrily she shouted back that she would take her chances,
her hair a nest of curls, copper like the last leaves on the branches.
There was just the moon to warm me as I stumbled in the snow.
Numb I called a fire down and huddled in my cloaks, not knowing where to go.
The scent of sandalwood and she was there and roasted me a steak.
Double checked her padded collars lock she did, altough I was much too weak.
"Tell me a story" then she asked in a gloomy way, less cheerful than before
and I told of mercenary mages, of elder gods and Ebon wars and more.
She told solemnly to me about a woman in a tree and of life and change and death
and I was left to contemplate in sole companionship of my ghostly cloud of breath.
I mused about the way she'd warned me of her growling hat, that it would pick a fight,
her hair a nest of curls, black like the empty starless sky on a winter night.
Roaddust on my robes again. Slow my pace, inhale the morning breeze.
I never noticed them before, such miracles as these;
blooming flowers beside my path, the texture on a tree,
the murmur of a brook, the fragrance of the sea.
I take my rest here on this stone, watch the birds and hear their song.
My journey's ending here. I know she'll be here soon, that it won't be long.
"In what season are you now?", I whisper although I've seen her in a sight,
her hair a nest of curls, so fair it's almost white.

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