Peregrine

by


He roamed the cloudless stretches

Gathering cities under his nails

His quarried face

Had seen more sun than the moon

 

He had the air of a man who

Favored silence

If he talked it was to birds

Not the louche travelers and traders crossing his path

He carried a common currency

Walked a hundred boots to death

 

When he left a place

The citizenry felt something had been snatched from them

They prayed he would never return

and that he would

 

 

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