Nomadic Hunter

The wind whispers secrets through the tall grass blades, A symphony for nomads, a language that pervades. But tonight, the hunter, eyes filled with a storm, Hears only the echo of a deed yet to be born. Beneath a sky spangled with a million burning eyes, He kneels by the fire, guilt a serpent that ties. No gazelle this trophy, no lion brought low, But a deed of darkness, a forbidden flow. A stranger, a plea, a glint of stolen gold, A struggle, a silence, a story left untold. The weight of the plunder, a burning in his chest, A sin against the desert, a nomad put to the test. The firelight dances on a face etched with shame, Honor, his compass, twisted out of frame. Survival's a harsh mistress, a whisper in the night, But the moon knows his secret, bathing him in cold light. The drums of the tribe beat a rhythm in his head, Ancestral voices murmuring, the words of the dead. Will they cast him out, a pariah on the plains? Or will forgiveness rise like the desert's gentle rains? He packs up his burdens, the silence a heavy cloak, Leaving tracks in the sand, a story yet to be spoke. The wind carries whispers, a tale for the dunes to keep, Of a nomad and his darkness, a haunting while he sleeps. The drums of the tribe beat a rhythm in his head, Ancestral voices murmuring, the words of the dead. Will they cast him out, a pariah on the plains? Or will forgiveness rise like the desert's gentle rains? He packs up his burdens, the silence a heavy cloak, Leaving tracks in the sand, a story yet to be spoke. The wind carries whispers, a tale for the dunes to keep, Of a nomad and his darkness, a haunting while he sleeps.