An eldritch storm cloud lies just before me.

The crackling purple fog beckoning me to leave this place

and return to my own plane.

For now, my parasol shields me from the waxing silver orb,

just visible at the end of day.

The celestial mirror casting its moonwake

on the rippling waters of a nearby pond.

The lachrymose song of a nearby songbird bids me adieu

I whistle back that I'll return,

but we both know that it's a lie.