The Traveler's Song

On a hill sometime in June,
as passed the dregs of Spring,
a traveler stood, humming a tune,
and occasionally he'd sing.

Surveying now the empty land,
his melancholy song
he'd sing, a walking stick in hand,
for he'd been traveling long.

He sojourned to the city doors,
and as the gates swung wide,
his singing stopped- he looked with horror
at what he found inside.

The streets were barren, void of life,
the avenues been razed.
The boulevards bespoke of strife.
He lifted then his gaze...

As he looked up, he saw the sky
with gloomy shades of gray.
The traveler frowned, then heaved a sigh,
continued on his way.

Nearing the end of this city dead,
he saw a gravemark there:
"Here lies Mankind," engraved words said,
inscribed upon the air.

He stopped for but a moment, and
began to sing again,
and as he walked with stick in hand,
the clouds began to rain.



-D.B.