the traveler

a weary traveler walks down a lonely road to a deserted garden. where are you going, o traveler, and why are you so weary? i am weary because i have traveled a long way, and because i am lonely. why are you lonely, o traveler? i see a light in the distance. perhaps it an inn or a pub, you could retreat to its cozy warmth and rub elbows with your fellow creatures, consume a warm or cold beverage as your fancy suits you, perhaps share your thoughts on politics or art or philosophy or religion. such things are not for me, i walk alone. alone, always alone. night is falling, o traveler, are you not afraid of losing your way? i have already lost my way, a long time ago. the moon is rising, o traveler, perhaps it will light your way. i have no way - no way except to doom. look at this deserted garden, traveler, does it remind you of happier days? no, not of happier days, but of all i ever loved. and what might that have been? the flowers. ah, the flowers, always the flowers. yes, the flowers that bloomed, the flowers that never bloomed, the flowers that were cut and placed in vases, that were displayed in lit windows, the flowers that blew away, that blew away in the dust, even as i…. ah, poor traveler, i will delay you no longer. the flowers that blew away, that blew away in the dust, even as i….