Although the sky is indigo, like the textiles from de Nimes, and although my horse is watered and well fed, I am not sure I want to pause here to stare at the darkened towers of that castle on the steep smooth mountain (made of stiff coagulated custard), nor do I want to hallooo to its loneliness. I dare not stop to gaze and wonder:
Why is there a black cloud over that castle, with its many empty windows
and crenelations like filed teeth?
I dare not take the time to look back at my own castle -- to admire the way it smiles at me in its good humor and waves its flag.
Why does my own castle have a light and down-soft cloud above it? Are there two gods of the air blowing? One, his foul black breath, so thick it sinks rather than floats, and the other, laughing as she blows, so her sweet airy breath rises like the good smell of baking bread.
Are there two gods?
I dare not slow down again because now I see the wooden fences that try to keep the dark castle-men safe from land or sea invasion, and I see they have but five warriors left. And are they warriors? or are they widows, left behind?
No-one waits to hear me, but what I have to say is "I am your neighbor. I'm just passing by."
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