Saturday, March 17, 2007

He stands alone with hat in hand,

He scans across the wasted land.

He glances skyward, he knows in vain

Hoping for a glimpse of rain.

His horse needs water, he won't survive.

In his last attempt to keep him alive,

The few drops left in a rusty canteen

He gives his horse, as if in dream.

He knows his time grows short at last,

He thinks of home, and green green grass.

Off comes the saddle, worn and old

He feels the weight lift from his soul.

He recalls the times his life, the weight,

His horse has carried with steady gait.

The weary horse stumbles, falls,

His eyes so dry, no tears at all.

He remembers well the trails they made.

The gifts of trees, and streams and shade.

The adventure, the spirit, those golden days,

And as evening comes they drift away.

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