And a breath ye may take o’er the snow laden fields,
While whispers of wind travel the hills,
An unknown shadow, ever softly on silent feet,
Broken silence, a stealthy retreat.
Ages old, so ancient, yet still he travels to and fro,
No set destination, nowhere he really needs to go.
Sometimes the loneliness captures his spirit,
And sometimes a message from a voice, so loud he can hear it.
His soul was banished long ago, he gave it for a life of greed,
And now the emptiness never fills his aching need.
And still he travels with laden breath,
Hoping that soon peace will come with death.
Mercy, mercy set him free,
May God finally grant him serenity.
© Cynthia Clark