The Travelers

Tired, the travelers
They walk and walk
They never stop.
No matter how
They trod on mud
There is not one
Footprint.
Soleprint.
Of muddied sand
Of muddied banks
Time has become tortured hush
So fast, so incredibly fast
No space is left
For wailing
For weeping
For unloving
Even languid feelings
Should be cast to die
By the wayside where
The wayfarer casts
Innocent shadows on
The lonely roads
The lonely roads
They may not see again.

-Celeste Zeta Montalban
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