The Ceaseless Wayfarer

Be it peerless mettle for the journey
Or sheer blindness before soft years,
He removes all traces from light thought,
Leaving those passed by to futile worry,
Entrusting them to mull apt cares
And the listless life he’s so forgot

They who attest that he tramps a fool,
They who attest he envisions the way,
Are those that surely know him not;
He rambles reflecting on self-made rule,
They that never deign to roam astray
Must seek their shelter ‘neath cast lot

He wanders never seeking farthing,
He simply ranges to fulfill the skies,
Blue peaks, songbirds, and saplings upshot,
Months on end trekking while starving,
The plight of the exile assumes his guise,
Realizing all weathered seasons have taught

Accepting someday it will come to end,
Trusts a misty plateau in the air his reward,
Not one moment ever he walks distraught,
Requiting poignant caresses to the wind
His stop will be a freshly sprouted sword,
Avowing at death’s beginning is life begot