Westward

What does the sunrise look like, To someone headed west? One who cannot turn round, Nor take one glance behind. First a pale glow, Reflecting off the valleys low; Followed by the sweet chirping Of the birds in the pines. Then the light increases Until a color of unimaginable hue Filters through Onto the soggy ground ahead. How the weary traveler longs to go back – To see the youthful hope He used to revel in with childlike laughter; Admiring the simple things. But he is on his own road, And every night sees his faint hope In the sunset so red and glorious Behind that dark foreboding mountain Which is his final destination – In this world.