"And his voice carried on."
The words echo like a spirit through the air of the desert land.
They continued the search for him at every dawn.
All that's endured are legends of this special man.

The village awaits, while the trekkers search ... And search. They tarry on.

Spent, they return as the sun sets ... The town chants: "And his voice carried on."

What was once a world of blue and green is now arid & bare.
Society collapsed under the weight of false ideologies and greed.
Souls are choked in the grasp of a common stare.
They starve for truth more than any carnal need.

And his voice carried on.

They've heard his words are power.
They've been told his voice has golden wings.
They've heard his essence towers.
They've been told and told ... They've never seen ... They've only been told these things.

Civilization is naught but a sentient species stained.
Only a village remains.

The villages tarries on.

They used to scorn him.
Now they mourn him.

The trekkers search on,
In pursuit of the fountains that flow from his speech.
As the people thirst on,
Desperate for the day he comes within reach.

He is alive.

And he is free.

He thrives.

I know it ...

Because I am he.

The last poet.


And his voice carries on.