Travelweary

My weary feet ache for rest
And my tired eyes can barely see,
Blinded by the dust of the road,
How far ahead the road winds-
Shimmering into indistinct lines
Near the horizon, but a hazy mass
Of red dust and dusty trees.

A happy home lies far behind,
Days of languid beauty, comfort, shelter,
The solemn sweetness of safety.
No more mine, that simple life;
No longer any right to call that house mine.
I’ve torn away my wretched soul
And must now rid its longing for sanctuary.

How far, I wonder, to the nearest inn?
How far to food and rest?
How far for me to think up a tale
That might for my dinner pay?
Too hale to be ill, too young to be decrepit...
Mayhap the truth will tonight suffice
For a loaf and a blanket in the hay.

Then, up, tomorrow, and again the road,
And on and on and on.
These wretched boots won’t last more miles
Nor this wretched life many moons.
A vagabond’s death, then, by the road,
A pauper’s funeral, if the authorities oblige,
An unmarked grave in which to lie.