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‘Nothing, really,’ Rôg said, sitting fully down, cross-legged, on the sparsely grassed dirt. He leaned forward, elbows on knees; his chin resting on the palm of his left hand. ‘Just to talk, I suppose.’
The fingers of his right hand tapped out a rhythm on a small patch of grass and weeds. ‘You know,’ he went on, humming a little to his fingers’ rhythm. ‘I know that song you’re singing.....Zagra, isn’t it?’ He could almost recall the words, he thought. They were just on the tip of his tongue.
‘Where did you learn it? Do you remember what it’s about?’
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