The homeless wanderer

While standing close to the top of the tall mountain, my eyes can see the old ones’ walls. All while overviewing the valley of the present. But who is this lonely wanderer I call me? What will the one through whose eyes I have been looking have left behind? Carefully investigating the luggage, there is nothing of permanence I carry. I had no home in the valley, nor was I invited into the eternal walls of old.

Yet, my luggage is heavy. And looking back, my marks go, oh, so deep. And while there are no walls of my own: Wherever my heavy burden pressed my soul into the ground, a path arose. And while there are no walls to write my name on, it will be I who leads you. The ones replacing me on my way might not call my name. They will cry, “Someone laid a path for us!”

And while, in a thousand years, someone might read your name, everyone will speak my purpose. Every foot touching my path will connect to me. Not knowing my name, my trail adumbrates my presence.

You might have had a name. But I had a purpose. And while you became a name on a wall, I became purpose. And while you are dead, I forever exist.