Sirius, strider of the skies,
the wanderer looked up to see,
harder, wider grew his eyes,
his lids peeled back with wonder.
The names of other stars he knew were few,
but he could point towards
the glittering of Orion’s belt,
the tilting of the Plough,
the steady sparkle of Venus,
for though he was no navigator,
he had learned of them somehow.
And though they were far older,
compared to them he felt no younger,
still they opened him to celestial peace,
made him aware of worlds,
free of mortal wars and woes,
for they could not hear the sorrow in the sound
of waves breaking on far off shores,
deep in the dark of night,
the murmurs of unseen seas.
They woke his heart to hope,
but always he was glad
when he found an inn,
to shelter there within,
sit at his table, his meal and drink before him,
his travel bag at his feet,
part of his journey over,
but not yet complete.
And when morning came,
time for map study and goodbyes,
he never gave his name,
nor would he say his destination,
as for what was in his travel bag,
he would say nothing,
for it was naught but a pack of lies.


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