The Enigma

The traveler sleeps in a sepulcher, 
endlessly, timelessly, 
where no ray of light enters. 
Like the death has stopped 
moving, for a moment 
to celebrate the close of the journey. 

Indeed? Is it the edge of yearning? 
I no longer belong to any one, 
to any universe. Come a long way 
walking barefoot on hot sands 
of life where no footprints exist. 

Do not go for my vision. Find 
your own path. In yellowish- brown 
eroded silica, ripened in sun, 
I have left my eyes. The moon 
will tell the tale of my Olympian 
failures.