I wake each day, complete my morning ablutions and depart for my bottega. There is a spring in my step till I reach the corner of the tavern forbidden; the tavern where you and I whiled away many an evening; the tavern where I cannot enter, for there is a self-imposed proscription. My steps become a tread as I pass it by. I cannot enter, for if I do, they will ask me of you; and I would have no answer to give.
I linger at the corner, the corner of the tavern forbidden. The smell of milk ambrosia hangs heavy in the air that girds the tavern. To all others, it is an aroma. To me it is a slew of memories; aching memories of our time together.
Three winters have passed since I have set foot in the tavern, but it feels like twelve. Moons multitudinous must wax and wane before my exile ends. As for the sick, sweet savor of milk ambrosia, it will forever bring forth remembrances of you.
– Musings of the deranged bard
20101017 17:42 hr