“Ah true; who can truly understand the chaos drives the feline mind.” He remarked back with a subtle laugh. A creature so given to whim; such as lazy napping as displayed by the cat still on the book before them.
At the given gesture, his attention turned next to the assistant he referred to. The assistant was already gathering the parchment in preparation, having been in earshot of the White Swallows guidance to Harun.
“Might I ask you for a few sheets of parchment, please - Ah, thank you very kindly.” He had barely completed the request when the assistant happily offered the parchment already gathered. He took the stack with him and returned to his seat, dabbing the
quill in ink before making pensive hesitation. His chin came to rest in his other hand during this pause of thought before his posture shifted anew. From still idleness to rapid writing, Harun and began to move the quill and jotted his poem down on the parchment before him:
On the endless dunes
Where we children fared
In play on the sand
Every afternoon.
Now none remain there.
Who knew we’d disband.
Time is youth’s disturbance
Fated to get older
Childhood came to end.
Some to be merchants
Or scribes and soldiers
Some not to be seen again.
Though those years
Were long ago
I must attest,
That time with peer,
I know to wist,
Those days were best.
Knowing them no longer
I dwell curiously
So I lie and ponder,
Do they too think of me?
With the poem complete, he sat up a bit straighter and reviewed what he just wrote. He had remembered the work verbatim, and there was small pride he took in that.
But to see the poem in written form before him and ready to be made submission had caused Harun sudden and unforeseen nervousness. What he had written, he had done so as hobby and pastime. More out of need to put his thoughts to writing, than to entertain another. This one he remembered writing decades ago, in awkward transition between stages of life.
But this was a distant land of far different custom; and his experiences and priorities may not be the same as theirs. Travels thus far already had shown cultures and ways of life far different than he had known; and he had roamed but one small patch of the great expanse that constituted
Arethil.
With that gained wisdom, he could only wonder if his expression would be shared. Recounting the
White Swallow's recent encouragement granted a sense of security; this was no place of judgment, he might be misunderstood at worst. His skittishness settled, he finally set down the quill and shifted back in his seat.
“I've recalled the poem. But one I wrote long ago, on dwelling upon life whilst in Maraan. I must admit I'm curious of your thoughts, friend.” Harun remarked, carefully turning the parchment to afford a better view.
