My back is broken. Time to lick the tree, at last.
I always thought that I would die a farmer's death—covered in wasso leaves, and anointed with the black mud. Now I see that no one will croak my song to the ring-counters, or plant my shuulmtul at the foot of the Hist. I die a lukiul death. So it goes.
I pray that if anyone finds this note, they will whisper my name to the wind so I might find my way home. Even in a place like this, the wind can always find the leaves. It just takes time.