Desperandum

A weary traveler looked out upon the wasted land
arrayed in ashes burnt to dust, and ever-blowing sand.
The barren hills of lifeless breath held meaning for his broken heart.
If once he could conceive their words, they to him wisdom would impart.
A swelt'ring wind blew through his hair and yet he stood as still as stone,
a graven statue o'er a tomb, his flesh as cold as bone.
The tears had dried upon his face like desert plains of salt,
and long had sorrow turned his heart to granite without fault.
Despair complete, his grief too real,
too true to weep, too hard to feel,
his spirit's skin too frail, too thin
to keep the joys of Heaven in.
--
But years, they pass, and each one brought a single, verdant hour.
The raindrops fell, and one by one, the sands broke into flow'r.
The traveler does not look out upon the watered land.
Cracked marble eyes behold the dust, and ever-blowing sand.
The barren hills with lifeless breath imparted wisdom to his bone,
and turned his heart to volcan ash, and flesh to moving stone.
And though he wanders through the hills, his spirit lives no more,
no heart to give, no flesh to die, no blood in sacrifice to pour.
He lives immortal, everlong,
no ears to hear the children's song.
E'en Death cannot cut through his skin
to bring the joys of Heaven in.