travelers

upon the blistered rocks, we sit

perfected by the sun...

our souls and songs, portrayed, or lost

all silently, was sung...

First-hand, the man,

here traveled, whenced we met;

tips on his toes, sang songs of woes,

of picked-pricked tunes, and droves

the soft sun sets,

as does the toll,

of wandered

man and mind,

now place your hands, and count your glands...

which way to fly, or find?