On the seventh day of April,
in the year of that great battle
Between the lands of Azoth,
on the frozen North, and Agael,
of undaunted ships,
a troublesome dream came
to my tired Lord Asop.
In the grey, misty hours that
crept before the Sun rose,
his Lordship foresworn
aid and repose. And in his
glittering, caparizoned favourite horse
Rode, silent and troubled,
to the shores of the distant East.
From there, some say, he kept on marching
Either to the dark, steely sea,
Or to the stars that never set
beyond the last Thule of exalted fame.
And to this day, if asked about that day,
The fisherman of those lands reply
with a stern look, and a gentle
touch to the tip of their greased beards,
while, above their masts,
seagulls shriek while flying in ample circles.
So it is recorded on the last page of the
annals of the zingi, compiled, by
unknown scribes, towards the sixteenth year
of the great plague.