The Philosopher

Desert swept winds race through canyons.

Boneyards of the ages, filled with fears

of the last sad days of the lizard years.

Deep red sky boiling, flash

plains once green now covered in Ash,

What great weapon scorched this place?

The Philosopher walks through tribal lands.

The hunting place of Monten,

the last protectors of this place.

His hair is black and white in long flat braids.

He has eagle feathers in his face

and around his belt he wears his blades.

He speaks to the sky in the old language.

Lowering his bag, he unpacks his gear

for he knows it is not far from here,

the place called K’lena.

A pouch of velvet and a deck of cards

A minstrels lyre and the lute of bards,

Small silver tokens and the crests’ of clans

from all over the dreaming lands.