Plight of the Mystic Wanderer
The Plight of the Mystic Wanderer
The mystic wanderer knows the author well,
Dwells in the house of omniscience
intimately with the author himself.
The mystic wanderer sees the prizes as trivialities;
His forever are the gem studded caverns;
the rivers that pass silently below mountains.
He, like the author, sees all,
Grows tired of the eclipse.
Monotonous are the wavy prisms of the auroras.
The mystic wanderer’s life is quite charmed,
and upon a glimpse would raise envy in each and every soul,
He knows the earth from the high peaks,
swims among the giant demons of the sea.
Yet to his life there is no price,
with no adversity conquered,
Majestic waterfalls are as lusterless
as the miniscule rustling of brooks.
All and one begin to feel the same,
gone now is the childish wonder
inside the soul of the mystic wanderer.
Gone now is that unyielding zeal
for the damp crimson leaves of autumn.
The minutes are warped without purpose.
And when,
the wanderer finds the end of his spectral trail,
His eye will fall,
A pebble from the sky,
Collecting among the rest along the shore,
So meaningless of his own existence,
And never understood was the beauty
He brought to the panorama~
Cry for the wandering mystic
