Devotees prepare their villages for the master's arrival, readying the alms and gift bandages. They will drape his cart and his dog with wide loops of marigold heads and tiny copper bells strung together with yak thread. They sit in the sun among the striking shadows of the columns in the dusty main commons with their baskets of wool and wide combs and wheels stringing the marigold heads and singing about Ilyn.
our master rallies through our hearts and towns
always seems to think he's never been
pledging to remember us forever
lord ilyn is a part of nature now
he comes in the spitting rain or gloom of spring
he grips our fingers like a newborn child
he comes along on a static summer noon
laughs at our familiar terms of address
drinks our autumn vine from the same
bloody cup and passes it around
until we feel again eternal kinship
some will follow all the way to Mthyuh
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