The nomad pretends not to see. His shoulder rests against a trunk of red pine and he hums lowly in plains-tongue.
“Sloped like my father’s side,
are my happy altai mountains.
Blessed like my mother’s love,
are my eternal sun and sky.”
Eyes see the little princess in her lair, crouching discreetly behind a leaflet veil. They are in shining amusement. It is some small, momentary reprieve from the tear in his chest through which tar seeps.
