The Caravaneer
You should know that I am a traveler for no country shall ever accept me, and I am exiled to the desert.
Every now and then, the wind carries the scent of decomposition. Bloated corpses wander in, their ankles bound by iron, and beaten by Time, whose whip cries like thunder does when black clouds bloom. The vultures pick at them with impunity. All that is left behind are puddles of puss and blood. Is there anything better to do than decay?
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