Lonely he rides through the storm-beaten wastes of the sun-blasted silence,
Robes wrapped tight ‘gainst the wind, and a veil hides the line of his jawbone.
Bronze he wears not, nor the steel of the Northlands clings to his shoulders—
Leather and cloth are his armor, and silence the shield of his spirit.
Spear in his grip, and the kaiila beneath him moves like a shadow,
Carving a path through the dunes that remember the blood of old battles.
Lo! In the distance, a shimmer—a dream at the edge of the real world,
Rising through whirlwind and glare as a beacon to wanderer’s spirit.
Palms, gently swaying, and walls of forgotten but beautiful splendor,
Stone upon stone, kissed by time, yet unbroken by ages of exile.
Water he sees, and the glow of the sun through the arches of silence—
Sanctum of peace in a land where the gods have abandoned their children.
Still he rides on, without cry or complaint, like a thought made of iron,
Bound by a vow and a name that no longer is spoken by others.
There in the dusk, as the winds curled and sang through the ruins of ages,
He stood alone—and the tears of the sky fell like blessings upon him.