I meet Him in the Old Quarter
The Self-Made Lord
Resplendent in alien regalia
His very flesh the matter of the cosmos
His chariot and beasts of war
Star-wrought
Forged from impossible colours

Alighting on the grimy cobbles where I uttered my first cry
Newborn into this ancient slum
Just as He was into the Divine prison of this new form
I gently take His hand in mine
And lead Him to the alley

Enemies conquered
Legends seared into the flesh of the world
Trials triumphed over
Accolades that will echo
Through the endless grind
Of the patient mills of history

None of it matters now

I help Him out
Of His kaleidoscopic armaments
Pluck the Yggdrasilic vestments
From His numinous flesh

I bid Him kneel before me, he complies
Closing His eyes, like the eclipse of twin suns

Three taps of this shopworn old dirk
On each titanic shoulder
On that lambent supernal brow
To cleanse the filth of Godhood from him,
To give the man leave to stand back up

To welcome Comrade Haskor home.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Valnuary, in the year 970 AF.