After so long in the haughty West,
I'd all but forgot Calafian ways:
Your ready smile, your welcoming hand,
Your graceful greeting for a new-met friend.

Lured away by my Deborah love,
My heart a piece still left behind.
I gladly went as I gladly loved,
Yet foreign felt, in exile.

Calafian still, while St. Andrew's herald
I pinned my cape with my Golden Trident;
With sword and shield in Southern Shores
The serpent I upbore.

And when Talanque did step down,
To An Tir Crown I brought the news.
Though choked with tears, I made them know
How long he'd reigned, and how well too.

"I'm Calafian, Sire," I told King James,
"I love the sun.  But I thank Your Grace."
The Laurels met at the royal pavilion
And good James Greyhelm offered me shade.

The fleetfoot years passed by like days:
My marriage failed, my business too.
One day I walked by Morley Field,
And came upon a tournament.

And so was home, though much has changed:
The faces are new, the welcome familiar.
Alas, my course is set already.
I have to go—but I'll return.

—Il San, Korea
7/27/2000 (A.S. 35)
6th day before the Kalends of August, 2753 A.U.C.
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