They Have No Quest

January 3, 2005

Lands ancient
Where preying birds
Cry out, lonesome
For winds on high
To take them home

Where, like slow drums
All that is heard
Are the heartbeats
Of the wanderers

Who walk their paths
With staves and cloaks
Crying as the winged
For winds on high
To take them home

Lonely music
Is their story
Of dust and tears
Endless wandering

They have no quest
It is their way
To walk the lands
Without cities

Only wild realms
Of forests long
And great deserts
And mountains high

They live their lives
Tasting the dry skies
They have no wealth
But their wood staves

And their windblown
Jeweled, bright minds.

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