The Wanderer’s Lament upon the Howling Knoll

No trees to guard, no whispered leaves to veil the bitter gust,

Just barren earth, a tempest’s mirth—nature’s austere distrust.

The wind, a sable specter wild, did buffet limb and heart,

As if the heavens’ breath conspired to tear his life apart.

O’er hill and vale, his journey stretched—a ceaseless, winding thread,

Each step a chapter writ in dust, where hope and sorrow wed.

His eyes, a pool of shadowed fear, yet fixed upon the sky,

The gale upon his brow like scorn, the cost of wandering high.

“I am but mortal—frail and worn—against this raging gale,”

He spoke to none but whispered winds, a mournful, plaintive tale.

“My path entwined with threads of fate, a tapestry so grim,

Where death’s dark fingers brush my cheek, and twilight’s light grows dim.”

Upon this stage, the knoll’s stern face, the solemn witness grim,

Observed the mortal’s fleeting dance with destiny’s own hymn.

For in the silence ’twixt the storm, a question softly stirred:

“What dost thou seek where none remain, save shadows, unconfessed?”

He halted ’mid the tempest’s roar, his thoughts a tangled mesh,

Of memories, and yearning deep, and dreams now turned to ash.

“Condition cruel, to gait unseen, by hands too weak to clasp,

To wander ’neath this bitter sky, fate’s cold and iron grasp.”

His soul, a vessel tempest-tossed, did clutch at strands of time,

Recalling moments gently borne—now lost, a distant chime.

A mother’s face, a tender voice, a laughter bright and clear,

Beneath the weight of ruthless winds, these phantoms drew him near.

“Yet all is swept in gusts of fate, an ever-churning sea,

Where hopes are vessels torn and dashed, and dreams made debris.

Who walks this earth but battles thus, ’gainst shadows deep and stark,

And finds the dawn bereft of light, a world forever dark?”

A sudden hush, the raging breath withdrew to plaintive sighs,

The knoll itself, in twilight’s grip, leaned forward with its eyes.

In this brief pause, the Randonneur, bereft of hope’s reprieve,

Did slip within his heart’s own depths to seek what might believe.

“Had I but power to rend the web wherein my feet are bound,

To rise above the cruel grip where sorrow’s chains surround,

Yet no—this mortal coil is wrought of iron and of fear,

A dance with shadows ever close, too gripping, too severe.”

He turned his gaze toward the dark, where fields and sky converge,

There, in the mist, a faint faint light—a phantom’s fleeting urge.

Perhaps ’twas hope, or mere deceit—a shimmer cold and thin,

But still he yearned, his heart afire, despite the ceaseless din.

No star nor sun dared pierce this veil, of night so deep and vast,

The colline sighed beneath his tread, a ghost of journeys past.

And fate, that ceaseless weaver grim, did tighten every thread,

As though the loom of life decreed where mortal feet shall tread.

“Alas, the lesson harsh and true: man’s will, though fierce it be,

Is oft the leaf upon the stream that cleaves the stormy sea.

To battle wind is vanity, to rage ’gainst time’s cold hand,

For all shall bow beneath the dusk, as stars across it stand.”

So spoke the Wanderer, lone and sad, upon that blasted height,

His voice a whisper lost to wind, consumed by gathering night.

The sky itself seemed to weep with him—a funeral of sighs,

While all around the world turned blind to mortal’s anguished cries.

He knelt upon the barren rock, his soul both frail and bare,

And traced the circle of his fate—a symbol wrought with care.

Within that ring, a life was writ, from birth to bitter end,

An emblem of the fragile thread on which our days depend.

“Must all we cherish, all we dream, dissolve to whispered gloom?

Is life but dust and fleeting breath before the night’s cold tomb?

I seek in vain to grasp the stars—those beacons out of reach—

Yet find instead the jagged stone, the sharp and silent breach.”

The tempest gathered once again, and howled anew its roar,

The colline—scarred and battle-worn—became the ocean’s shore.

His form was dashed against the wind, a fragile leaf undone,

Until at last the storm receded; the Randonneur—alone.

A wisp of smoke, a fading breath, a final solemn gaze,

Upon that desolate battleground, beneath the sky’s dark haze.

His story ceased, yet echoed still through whispering winds and stones,

A testament to mortal plight, in grave and mournful tones.

Thus stands the knoll, beneath the storm, a monument austere,

To those who wander, bound by fate, and drown within their fear.

No joyous song marks their passage—only silence deep and cold—

The tale of man’s eternal fight, and sorrow’s grip enfold.

Yet hear, ye souls who tread this earth, the whisper on the breeze:

Though fate may bind, and time may steal, the heart still beats, decrees.

To live amidst the bitter wind, to brave the darkened sky,

Is to assert against despair—the soul’s defiant cry.

But sometimes courage falters, and all the stars retreat,

And what remains is but the night, unyielding and complete.

So rests the Wanderer now beneath the roaring gale’s old song,

A silent verse upon the wind—a grief that lingers long.

No triumph graced his final breath, no solace crowned his pain,

Just shadows vast and timeless grief—a requiem for the slain.

Upon the colline, beaten sore, the tale is etched in stone:

Of man, and fate, and ceaseless winds—forever to atone.

O mortal heart, take heed the storm that tears the sky apart,

Know that within each thunderclap there beats a broken heart.

Though paths be harsh and darkness deep, and fate a chilling breath,

To live, to dream—though tragic—still is respite’s bequest.

But on that knoll, where wild winds wail, a lonely figure stands—

A phantom traced by sorrow’s hand, with empty, grasping hands.

The story ends in somber note, no dawn to quell the night,

For mortal man, when faced with fate, must yield without respite.

Beneath the dark and surging skies, a final truth is born:

That all who wander ‘gainst the storm must face the bitter morn.

No clemency in cruel winds, no mercy in the gale—

Just endless night and broken dreams, a mournful, woeful tale.

So mark the knoll with silent stones, and listen when winds sigh,

The lament of the Wanderer whom fate did still deny.

A testament to fragile life, entwined with nature’s wrath,

A bitter hymn for human kind, who walk the shadowed path.

And though his feet have stilled at last beneath the tempest’s breath,

His story whispers on the wind, a dirge of love and death.

No triumph blazes in his wake, no joyous bells resound—

Just solemn truth: that life is grief, and grief alone is crowned.

So ends the tale upon the knoll, where furious winds contend,

Of Randonneur and fate’s cold grip, and journeys without end.

A mournful echo through the years—an elegy for all,

Who face the storm and yield, alas, before the final fall.