Dear Neraeos,

Some years ago, You extended an invitation to me to join Your order.
Though my mind is not changed, ineffable guilt remains in me at having
declined Your paternal offer. In an attempt to reconcile this guilt, I
have written a poem; I hope you find it ennobling unto Yourself.



Sweat squeezes through skin
Clings to hair like hot dew
Runs down the cheek
A nascent stream at the top of mountains.

It itches hotly at cheeks
As I wipe my face
I see the lake
Shimmering rays of sun amidst desert trees.

My boots off,
Feet in
Only steam blankets ankles
And covers cooling calluses, tucked-in to rest.

A drop of water falls
Released from jaw line
It splatters calm surface
My reflection wavering, waving like a hot horizon.

Thumb is wiped across cheek
Sweat rejoins the lake
When I cup a drink
Mouth can only meet thirsty gaps between fingers.

Now kneeling
Moist sediment yields to knees
My toes sink
In the dirt made swirl and the water made opaque.

Another tear shape
Sediment stifling impact
The horizon cooled
And my lips sucking sand off sides of fingers.

I stand and leave
The tainted lake
With the desert hotter and heating
I continue.

The while, sand grains settle
The taint heals
And the lake is left and stalwart in the desert.

Lord Epich D. de Vermiis

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Aeguary, in the year 349 AF.