A lone, cloaked wanderer walks the desert dunes,

overlooked above by resplendent, twin moons,

his cape is tugged by the sandy winds,

he journeys forth in the desert of sins.

A copper mask; a stoic face,

bandages wrapped in tight embrace,

a silver sword besets his hip,

the heat has cracked his curled lip.

A voice calls out from within and without,

the traveler halts his wayward route,

the whispers come from the desert sands,

they bid him return to his old home lands:

"Iméon the leper, borne of Aztan,

return ye home; wretched son of man,

the stars doth march the path of war,

wander not; a vagrant no more!

Return ye, at once, from whence you came,

if Iméon be indeed your name,

each path ahead shall lead to death,

waste therefore not your final breath!"

Moved to tears, he renews his step,

gallant strides through sands he swept,

he follows now the homeward path,

so not to incur the twin moons' righteous wrath.