With sights on western lands ...

[broz]

With sights on western lands, where rivers flowed
down wild mountains, full of promised gold,
they set out in a caravan. And God
was with them. But those dreaming rivers slowed
as they travelled down a long and faded road.
When golden seas of grass appeared untrod,
their days grew shorter, and the land grew old.
Decisions added to their growing load.

Soon late November filled with hungry snow.
The mountains, Argus-eyed and full of teeth,
rose over them, the moon bright as a blade.
With miles ahead, and nowhere left to go,
their bodies turned to meet their dead belief
in promises that no one ever made.