Born unto a barren land,

The weary traveller walks.

Across ash-strewn plains,

Dotted with ruins of nations past.

Of power, succumbed to the attrition of time.

He shuffles, his feet dragging behind him,

Leaving a trail, a streak through the dust.

Tears sullied, not by dust,

Tears drawn, not from grief,

From regret, by sinful deeds unknown,

From hate, by bitter things unsaid,

From fear, by dark shadows unheeded,

From greed, by power unceded

From lies, by deceit undetected.

The traveller walks,

Across ash-strewn plains,

Eternal.