Love is a wanderer,
Weary from the road.
Ages old he ambles past,
Back bent from its load.


On the darkest paths he doth tread,
And in the roaring heat and stony cold,
There he stays and lays his head.
The man ages old


Looks upon valleys
And hills he had once known,
Walks around water and tarries
To the place called home.

by Noah P.