He's walked along this lonely road,
Stone-laid on a bed of lime,
That stretches forever through these hills.
He walked to the end of time.
Littered by this pathway's side,
From ages past and gone,
Are ruined towers never completed,
For in the end we work alone,
And the skyline beholds a burning red,
In the distant lands,
Where war rages ever on,
Painting crimson the golden sands.
He stopped by a tumid river,
And took an idle drink,
From the tears of all the people,
Who, in their sorrow, sink,
And he was not happy, nor was he sad,
To be entombed within this place,
So he turned and ventured on,
With ancient light to guide his pace,
And he reached that end of time,
At the break of the forlorn road,
So he wrote, at once, his final words,
Dead seeds to never be sowed:
"Do not weep for the end of the world,
In truth, it's not that sad,
For it no longer exists,
Or maybe it never had."