Enchantment of the Winter Skies

Where memories were made of fresh fallen snow
and endless chill from the northern winds.
The land is harsh beyond compare,
leaving the strong to tread its face.

A coat of fur to protect against winter,
the hunter travels alone down the frozen trail.
Lost is he while he thinks about home,
a lone wolf that has left the pack for far too long.

And perhaps he is home,
as he imprinted another mark on seeming familiar snow.
But no matter how long you had been here,
you are just another stranger all vulnerable and cold.

He took a glance around and smelled the air,
wondering how this journey began.
Seeing shadows he looked up,
to find the source that brought about the dark.

He stared into a globe of light,
the moon in all its glory shining bright.
Taking a deep breath and called out he did,
in the only tongue he knew to the celestial that hung before him.

All he heard was the voice of the freezing wind,
while all else laid silent and still.
The lone wolf then sets off again,
stealing an occasional peek at the light above.

He's bounded for another trek,
a lifequest on this merciless land.
Where he knew he has to be strong,
to see the enchantment of the winter skies again.

The tribesman and the valley

When the valley echoes no more,
the tribesman knows its time to go.
Leave the land and leave a trail,
he will never cease to recall the the land he knew
and had love so deep for so long.

Canyons and mountains he journeyed,
the rivers and streams that quench and bath him,
all heard the story of his beloved home.
As he recited poems and sang the valley songs,
All full of emotion that he weep as he went along.

An old man he met on a winter's day
ask why he left the valley then.
The tribesman stopped and ponder.
"The valley, the valley echoes to me no more.
Now I'm an exiled, abandoned with no home."

He carried on walking down that snowy path,
trusting that to be the fate he was unjustly tasked.
His thoughts went to the stones and pebbles,
and the green grass that blanketed the earth,
upon which he used to run as he count the years.

On the plains that bore him no shelter,
a boy questioned if the valley exiled any others.
The tribesman stopped and ponder.
"The valley exiles no one but only a tribesman
can hear her voice and sweet whispers."

He grew tired with the day and so did his beard and locks,
many nights he spent under moonlight and sudden storms.
Drawing the only image that would not disappear, 
he made the ground he slept a giant canvas
which he house the valley like no other.

Upon the desert a nomad said if a tribesman he still is
then its the valley that stopped speaking.
The tribesman stopped and ponder.
"I am a tribesman not by the valley but my own being
then perhaps I should return to seek the reason within."

He turned back to the trails he came so far from,
across the rivers and streams that now knew his song.
The old man and the boy saw in his eyes,
the spirit of a man who is truly alive,
They gave the tribesman their blessings and bid him goodbye.

Back at the valley he waited and listen,
time passed and nothing happened.
The tribesman stopped and ponder.
He shouted out loud and sang his songs,
the valley now echoes once more.

He heard a whisper of sweetest voice,
it was the valley he recognize.
Why had he left right after an echo was missed,
did his love for the valley not sustain his belief?
The voice questioned while all he did was grin.

The tribesman knew if not for his love,
he would have never had returned.
All he had been was a fool to lose
the knowledge of what made him whom,
until the journey took him there and back again.