1428 - Wanderer
It was the golden hour,
When he'd started afoot,
Through the long rows of maize,
Down the dirty red road.
It was when the winds blew south,
And the days were a little longer,
That he lifted his belongings of two,
And followed his broken compass.
It was when the ferryman hit the shore,
And the vendor sold the last of his little dolls,
He hummed the song of farewell,
And let his ragged slippers dig into the soil.
It was when the pyre had just cooled down,
And the lingering scent was still afresh back home,
Did he find his refuge in the homelessness,
When he found a home in all of nature around.
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