The Poet has died.
There was no sinister murder, nor a regrettable accident, only the capriciousness of fate.
In the morning, the Poet was preparing to leave this village and continue his journey, but under the wear of alcohol and time, his life had already reached its end, and the leisurely days of late were nothing but a final gleam before death.
The Poet wobbled to a large tree with lush branches. He thought he only needed a short nap, but this time, he never woke up again.
The villagers stood not far away, unsure how to deal with this strange outsider until they thought of the stranger.
The stranger had been drinking and carousing with the Poet these past few days. They thought the stranger might be a friend of the Poet, so they called him over and entrusted him with the Poet's final affairs.
The stranger arrived at the tree near noon. The Poet still sat beneath it, eyes tightly closed, as if he had not died, only fallen asleep.
