The Dying Sun and the Ranger

He is a ranger,
staggering into the sunset.
The last warmth of the setting sun
burns away his final pride.
White beard and old scars
bear witness to the long road behind.

He was a ranger,
remembering the past.
Singing softly in an empty valley,
his voice carried far by the wind.
Among the flowers, he briefly forgot,
letting the wounds of the journey ease.

He will be a ranger,
the road ahead hidden in yellow sand.
Beneath his headscarf, his gaze
pierces the boundless yellow haze.
He asks not where his journey ends,
seeking only burial in his homeland.

He is already a ranger,
standing in the sunlight at the journey’s end.
That oasis in the sand,
a half moon.
For freedom and dreams,
from sunrise to a blood-red setting sun.