The sands rolled on eternally,
and without hope the slave pressed on.
Moments from death, he crawled on knees,
forsaken by masters long gone.

But Death, in blackened cowl then spoke:
This time I’ll let thee fly and live,
yet only with this dreaded yoke;
from hunger saved this deal I’ll give:

You’ll never starve nor morsel need
until the day when I return,
but henceforth thou shalt never feed
nor drink; for these you’ll never yearn.

And thought the dying slave, starving,
that he might see beyond this dune
before dealing with Death. Barring
with eyeless glance, came warning soon.

The deal was now or not at all,
so how, hearer, should this resolve?

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