Underneath the crimson sky, where whispers weave the tales,
A lone traveler walks the path where memory never fails.
With every step upon the ground, he hears the echoes sing,
From the branches of the weathered oak, the tales of wandering spring.
The winds of change, they softly blow, caressing his untamed hair,
As the shimmered dawn begins its dance, casting warmth upon the air.
He hums a tune, a gentle fold, a soft chord of the heart,
That binds the moments, lost and found, as daylight starts its art.
Oh, the roads that wind like rivers deep, through valleys draped in gold,
With stories kept in a weathered chest, in every word retold.
The sun will rise, the shadows fade, the clouds will drift away,
But in the heart of a traveler’s song, memories forever stay.
The mountains high, the oceans wide, he’s felt them all before,
Each mountain pass, each distant shore, has tugged at his core.
He carries dreams beneath his coat, like treasures meant to keep,
In the silence of the starlit night, where secrets gently seep.
So if you see him, don’t be shy, just offer him a smile,
For every path can find a friend, it only takes a while.
And when the sun dips low again, beneath that endless hue,
The crimson sky will hold the stories shared, the old, the brave, the true.
As the quiet settles in, and day gives way to night,
Our lone traveler finds his peace, in fading shades of light.
So raise a glass to every soul, who dares to roam afar,
For in the tales of the weathered oak, we find who we really are.
Folk
Crimson Sky, Weathered Oak, Shimmered Dawn, Soft Chord, Lone Traveler