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He rides beneath a sky of burning light,
A shadow stretching wide across the plain.
His boots are weathered, his hands are stiff with dust,
Yet in his eyes, the calm of open land.
The cactus stands vast, hard and still—
Green scars that mark the path he must make.

Each choice he’s made, each trail he’s had to make
Leaves dried footprints beneath relentless light.
Among the rocks, the thorned and silent still
Cacti reach up through heat across the plain.
Their arms outstretched like prayers upon the land,
Unmoving, though they're buried deep in dust.

He knows the ticking of time, the bite of dust,
The lonely hours every rider makes.
But strength is learned from harsh and spiny land—
A cactus doesn’t bloom in gentle light.
It thrives where nothing dares to cross the plain,
Its silence threatens, its shadow standing still.

And he rides like time itself stands still,
A part of wind, and sky, and choking dust.
He’s carved a thousand stories in the plain,
Each one a scar he had no choice but to make.
Like cactus roots that drink from hidden light,
He finds a deeper truth inside the land.

At dusk, he rests and studies all the land,
The cactus holds its pose, sharp and still.
Their needles catch the last of dying light,
Each spine a testament to years of dust.
He knows they bloom in time, but never make
A sound to tell the tale across the plain.

And so he rides again, across the plain,
No need for towns or fences on the land.
Like cactus, he was made for what he makes—
A life within the hush, the wild, the still.
He’s learned to live with wind, with heat, with dust,
And sing his silence into morning light.

So let the cactus bloom in desert light,
And mark the cowboy’s passing in the dust—
A quiet soul, deep-rooted in the western land.

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