Portents VII

down in the meadows

where i once saw a man

a tarnished, soulless, soul of a man

he begged for no mercy

did not reach for a hand

content just to be, just where he stands

the grasses were waving

in the cold winter wind

a solitary being in a lonely land

the world cannot see him

but the meadows can

as wind only lends it's biting hand

i saw and i wondered

what makes one a man

when one is forgotten and returns to the sand

i will not reach for him

and he will not demand

exodus from his wind bitten land