Far from home, sleep eludes a troubled wayfarer.
The chill of early autumn insinuates itself in my whiskers.
Honking geese disappear in the distant sky.
Grass insects cry more sadly as night deepens.
Too late now to do big things;
Too late, too, to be a fisherman or a woodcutter.
I get up and look out: the Milky Way has done its round.
The dawn bugle reverberates on the castle walls.