The Traveler

He is now gone nobody noticed it,

His amble was downhearted,

His hat was the Sun,

The Moon was his luggage,

He left, nobody knew where,

He left, nobody knew why,

He carried little birds in his hands,

He wrote on their feathers and freed them to fly,

He left never to return,

He left for his heart, it was told, had to find,

But longer was his journey he could not get back,

From the day the traveler was gone,

the sky remains crying and had never touched the light again,

You can see his hat from the horizon,

His pillow on dusk is the Moon herself,

The traveler, who sent flying letters like tiny colorful birds,

Were thousands of poems and perhaps, it was told, he got lost within them.

DA 2012