The Perfect Traveller

Beneath the stars along the road the Perfect Traveller speaks

There's nothing that he wants to know, there's nothing that he seeks

He can't remember where he comes from, he doesn't care where he's bound

And all the wonders of the world, both shallow and profound are just ashes on the ground

 

He does not dwell on memories, the past is not in his mind

The things he sees along the way are the things he left behind

He loves the traces of the swallow's flight he sees but cannot touch

Forgotten realms of the perfect world he recognises as such. He doesn't care too much

 

Every spec of dust he kicks in the air is added to his book of rhyme

Blisters on his weary feet are just proof of passing time

 

On a journey that has no end there is no right or wrong

Everything has it's own place, a place where it belongs

The arrow flying through the air it cannot change its course

The world without and the world within they both have the same source. The one and only source.

 

Beneath the stars along the road the Perfect Traveller speaks

There's nothing that he wants to know, there's nothing that he seeks

He can't remember where he comes from, he doesn't care where he's bound

And all the wonders of the world, both shallow and profound are just ashes on the ground

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