Sing sos-7
by C. D. Reiss
This is the last book in the series.
Take my hand, my love. On sinews of air we tread Aught but distance our guide With no tempo to our gait No endpoint drawn Neither plot nor plan By the thorns of a compass rose We bound toward the horizon
Take my hand, my love. On sinews of air we tread Aught but distance our guide With no tempo to our gait No endpoint drawn Neither plot nor plan By the thorns of a compass rose We bound toward the horizon