It hobbles day and night
across deserts and abandoned roads,
Its face drawn, red eyes strained
by age, and wormlike body
bloated by loneliness.
It has no name, but it has memories
of its world: the cold moss
cushioning its feet,
the wail of the insects in the night,
and the sweet meaty smell
of the ancients giving birth.
It must feel tired and useless
in a world where being lost
and being abandoned is natural.
And it has no choice but to move on,
on one-hundred tired feet
to the stars.