The Storm-Wrought Wanderer – A Philosophical Poem on Fate & the Human Condition
Beneath the tempest’s brooding shroud,
Where thunder rolls its mournful hymn,
A solitary figure bowed,
His silhouette both faint and grim.
The fields of Campagne stretched afar,
A sea of gold beneath the storm,
Yet naught could soothe his heart’s deep scar,
Nor quell the tempest’s cruel reform.
The sky, a canvas dark and vast,
With strokes of lightning’s fleeting fire,
Reflected shadows of the past,
And kindled memory’s dire pyre.
Heros, they called him once, in jest,
A name bestowed in brighter days,
When youth’s sweet bloom adorned his breast,
And hope had lit his verdant ways.
But time, that thief of mortal dreams,
Had stripped his spirit bare and cold,
And left him wandering the streams
Of fate’s unyielding, ancient mold.
The storm above, a mirror cast,
Of turmoil churning in his soul,
Each flash a glimpse of what had passed,
Each thunderclap a tolling knoll.
He trod the path of withered grain,
Where once the harvest danced in sun,
And felt the weight of endless pain,
As though his life had just begun.
For what is man, but dust and breath,
A fleeting shadow on the earth,
Condemned to wrestle life and death,
And seek the meaning of his worth?
The wind, a mournful minstrel’s cry,
Sang dirges of the fallen years,
Of loves that withered, hopes that die,
And dreams dissolved in bitter tears.
Heros, the storm seemed thus to say,
Thy fate is writ in heaven’s scroll,
Thy steps but tread the destined way,
Thy heart but bears the mortal toll.
And yet, amidst the tempest’s roar,
A fleeting light, a fragile spark,
Did pierce the gloom he long deplored,
And briefly lit the endless dark.
A memory, perhaps, of spring,
When blossoms kissed the morning dew,
Or whispers of a lark’s soft wing,
That once had stirred his heart anew.
But as the storm began to wane,
And twilight draped the weary land,
Heros stood still, in silent pain,
And raised a trembling, weathered hand.
The heavens wept their final tears,
The fields lay still, as if in prayer,
And in the hush of fading years,
He vanished into empty air.
No monument, no stone to mark
The place where Heros met his end,
No voice to pierce the gathering dark,
No hand to clasp, no heart to mend.
For such is man’s eternal plight,
To rise, to fall, to fade away,
A shadow in the storm’s dim light,
A whisper lost in time’s decay.
And so, beneath the storm-wrought sky,
The tale of Heros finds its close,
A fleeting breath, a mournful sigh,
A testament to life’s harsh throes.
The fields of Campagne stretch anew,
Beneath a sky both vast and free,
Yet none recall the storm that blew,
Or Heros’ fateful destiny.
As the storm fades and twilight descends, Heros vanishes into the ether, leaving no trace of his existence. His story, a mirror to our own, reminds us of life’s fragility and the inevitability of our fleeting presence in the grand tapestry of time. Let his journey inspire you to embrace the storms, cherish the fleeting sparks of light, and find meaning in the chaos. For in the end, we are all wanderers beneath the same vast, storm-wrought sky
