Poem, Scenic, Short story

The ever movers.

The visitor comes from far away. He comes unannounced, as he knew not where he was going until he got there.

He’d traveled for days and nights and nights and days. Through the dry and through the rain. Through deserts and swamps. Over seas and rivers, through trees and tundra.

So far has he travelled. So much beyond the horizon he has seen, taken part of, touched, tasted and felt.

Oh so very much has the visitor seen and done in a life to which you would sit in amazement to hear.

Journeys through peaceful glades and war zones, meeting the peasantry, exchanging words with nobility, seeing animals that seem as nought but legend, and artifacts belonging to Gods and men.

He has seen and heard acts as cruel as spite itself, but also as loving and kind as would bring a tear to the eye of men and Gods alike.

So very much the traveller has seen, he could never tell you in a day, a week or year.

So much has the traveller seen. Or so he says.

Word tells of some travellers who travel from place to place, not because they desire to, but because they must.

For they are the ones who find themselves not welcome among the lives and homes of others, despite their stories and declared dreams of settling down.

Some of them travel because they have been forced by sword and angry mob to vanish, others vanished before the mobs came to put their travels to rest and make a settling permanent.

Some will have a story to tell about those who would send them on their way, or force them from where they choose to stay.

But they will never say why.

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