As Ivandar sorts through the boring parchments he's contracted to copy that afternoon, a scrap falls to the floor. Its edges torn, and of a different hue, it's obviously a fragment that's worked its way into the leaves by mistake. He bends and lifts it, expecting to find fragmentary merchant records or, more interestingly, a bit of history. But, no, it's a poem. His eyes scan the lines, his expression sobering slightly. Then he sets the scrap aside, trying to dismiss the words from his mind to focus on his work. After all, summer is not so sad.
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OOC death loneliness
