I met him on the moon in the middle of October,
And he read the stars that I wrote down with lightning and a cup of tea.

The once-faceless adventurer who fought dragons for me,
Tasted wine of brevity that melted away his mask.

He sailed the East, he sent me greetings, and he taught me of patience.
His words built bridges, and added a sparkle to the marble fountains.

I wrote him a letter – a scroll of a chronicle, but the swords took him away.
Without a chance to bid farewell, I bury my words and hope for a shovel to have him unearth the tale.


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