The wondering minstrel
stopped a moment
for a periodic rest;
Strumming his lute,
a tune in ode
for the weary traveler.
Within each note
there was to be heard
a pleading voice asking,
"where is my home?
Long and far
these feet have transversed
the roads that diverge
across this land.
This tote grows heavy
and now I find
time has placed
beyond these hands-
an abode in which
a family awaits-
a fire burning,
sweet scents of fare;
how I long for childlike voices
to greet and welcome me there.
This life is lonely-
the ache of heart
brings to longing
a peaceful respite.
Yet these words
are but a token-
that have no value,
nor can they ever be mine."
Humble the tune
it does entreat
all to well
the memories of old:
when as a child
he snuggled close,
safely in his mother's arms.
Childhood seem so secure,
yet fleeting:
my how security
flew away.
Leaving uncertainty
and disillusionment
to rest within their place.
Lift the gauntlet
for one last drink
before to path
you take again.
Know that tonight
when all are dreaming-
upon cold hard ground
you will rest.