The Wanderer

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.