In the small dark village of Yakathaim
Near the edge of blackness vale
I spied a bronzen man who came
O’re the rocky mountain trail

His boots were cov’ed in gritty dust
His hands were worn and rough
His sword was red with years of rust
And His voice was thick and gruff

“Ho, thou long worn traveling-man,”
I hailed him on the road,
“Come hence, I’ll give thee a hand,

Chapter the Fifth

Just a bit more of castle-doings before Aria must leave, and we shall go on.

It was a fine day. Gilligan was outside, strolling around the open air courtyards, until he noticed Aria, sitting beside a fountain, buried deep in thought.
"Aria? Where are you?" Gilligan sat beside his friend, waving his hand back and forth in front of the daydreaming girl’s face.

This was written after our trip to Yemen this summer... not very good, but I liked the way it turned out.
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Scattered qaat leaves beneath my foot,
Veiled women dressed in black.
People jabbering in Arabic around me.
Welcome to Yemen.

Open-doored Dibabs driving by,
Little boys kicking a ball in the street.
Stray cats sitting under the chicken coop.