That man, he walks high.
Old Traverser, they call him.
Through deep snow, in the hallow wind.
Alone, he watches the night’s stars.
A glow from the heavens up high.
With the rising of the sun;
And the cawing of all birds,
He walks once more, to the ends of the earth.
In the light of all days to come.
Behind, his footprints in life; a line towards home.
But, this is his earth, a venture unknown.
Teetering on those ridges, above all existence.
On the shale of ocean bottoms;
In the bones of sick creatures.
Sometimes he wishes, he might just speak one word.
To see the brightness in another’s truly warm eyes.
To feel skin beside his own.
And yet, this is the simple life he utterly chose.
To be the wanderer, the ghost amid the hills.
Occasionally he glances down;
On towards the Valley of No Words.
Whose streets he once slumbered, in the face of all throes.
It is of no interest to such a man,
And so he walks on.
Eerie is the land without wind.
Without power and all that makes living sing.
Though, he is the Old Traverser,
The man in need of nothing.