Dust

The wanderer follows
No hallowed path
Set forth for her
By the sagacious few.
Nor does she live
To build her past
For far off futures
Whose seeds are sewn.

No familiar face
Has she ever seen
That greets her where
She decides to sleep,
But travels with
The wind in her hair:
The only companion
She chooses to keep.

All empires return
To dust that birthed
Them from the nothingness
Of barren ground,
And push the ambitious
To build them tall
For fleeting futures
On foundations unsound.

Such men still laugh
At one like her
Who possesses nothing
In their eyes,
And lives in chaos
Of shifting destiny
With no respect
For human lies.

But no future goal
Controls her fate,
Nor worldly tethers
Bind her past,
So she is free
To contemplate
Her relation to
The earth so vast.

She is the dust
from God’s fingers
that’s fallen on
Ungrateful land
And shows the blind
And sinful people
Their origin from
The present at hand.

They deride and mock
Or at best ignore her
And value what God
Did not confer
But she is more
than the earth and sky
And none can take
What belongs to her.