Dine with the elf
Sitting cross-legged by the fire
Cold stone floor
Bowl of steamed ancient mixture
He speaks with his hands
Wants to be understood
Communicates a wayward time
Flying devils and master swords
Now weariness creeps in
Heaviness of the world
Laughed at
Not taken seriously, perhaps
On exhibit
Like all creatures he longs for love
Finds it in bits and pieces
Gives it with false starts in luxuriousness
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