A Nomad

A simple man, he wanders the plains,
he walks along the fold, never complains.
He's a man of the stars, and loves to play;
rarely down, he'll always sleep at day
just to see the stars wheel overhead.
A tree to him is a sight to behold,
and little beyond is known to him, truth be told.
He hears the stones, feels the birds, knows the grass.
To him, he matters not, he knows he won't last;
he knows that one day he'll be dead.

He shall camp here and there a week or two,
and thusly he shall follow the food through and through.
At length he will arrive at his favorite place;
here can rest, and amid the pool, see the spirits' grace.
But soon he'll pick up his tent, and go on wandering.
He will hunt the bactrial, the bison, the deer.
But never more than he needs, out of fear
that one day there be none left but one.
And then after that, all but none.
To the deer, he is but a posteurling.

All across the years he and his shall walk;
over valleys, aside rivers, and though they talk
they love and help and always embolden the other.
Without one, there would surely never be another.
A clan united by love and heritage and a heart.
The wombs collect the plants, the berries,
the men hunt the game, delay the faeries.
At night they gather round the fire and think;
and as the fire burns away, their imagination brings them to the brink.
With heart and mind in soul, they never part.

May all know that one could once find this man any place,
in Siberia, in the steppes, the deserts, and all faces
were this man. But now he is a rare kind,
and him if you see, know he is the last you'll find
for his blood is dead and dying, dead and dying.
But there will come a time, you'll see,
when the man will once more be seen.
Beneath the sky he will roam,
under the mountains and the starlit dome.
Someday soon, the nomad will cease dying.