Forgotten, their rhythmical sway.
The smoke from the wanderers campfire
Through ages has drifted away.
Ten thousand flickering campfires
Cold ashes returned to the ground
The halls of the canyons no longer
The echo of voices resound
I step with a strange hesitation
On ground where they made their last stand
Their epitaph written in whispers
Borne gently across the warm sand
There runs through my mind like a phantom
An image of what must have been
A simple people, yet noble
Their memory gone like the wind
Reflecting I gaze o're the landscape
And savor a moment of peace.
The wanderers spirit of freedom
Rides still on the wings of the breeze.
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