The Wanderer
Location
As the lone man wanders,
He sees many things:
A scowling, frowning statue
Of one of many kings.
While he travels who-knows-where
A sad song he sings;
Each note in perfect pitch,
O’er the land it rings.
Through sifting sands he strains,
Into searing sun he squints.
Behind, a winding trail
Assembled from his prints.
He carries all that he has seen
To all that he will meet,
But refuses simple comfort
Of blanket, bed, and sheet.
The mountains he traverses,
The waters are his walls.
Wherever he may wander,
Nature is his call.
Singing of a world that we
Will never truly know,
He vanishes into the dawn;
The west wind softly blows.