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I ride with the wind and the wandering streams
And my heart is the wild hawk that screams in the sky;
I shall ride the far roads in the search of my dreams
Till the stars in the high-scattered heavens shall die.
I was born by the light of a hunter's moon
While the Four Winds, my brothers, stood by--
My mother the lightning that danced in the clouds,
My father the storm-god that hammered the sky.
I rose up in youth to seek out my star;
The highroad before me stretched winding and long--
I heard the high voices come calling from far,
"Come, follow the long roads and sing your wild song."
I rode on the shaft of a lightning bolt
As I raced with the sun to the rim of the sky.
The heavens split wide at the sound of my voice
And the winds shook the earth as they called back the cry.
I found my mate on a summer night
As I followed the call from afar.
The song of a stream was our wedding hymn
And my bride was the evening star.
No home but the far-winding road for me,
No love but the lonely star;
I will live by no law but the voice of my dream
That cries on the hills from afar.
I seek not the ways and the haunts of men
As I ride in the search of my dream;
I seek for the home of the western wind
That sings where the far-off summits gleam.
I ride alone, under the vaulted sky
Kissed by the wind and the rain.
Somewhere there the far dreams lie
Where the wind trails the dust on the stretching plain.
I ride down the far roads, I follow my star,
I seek the far trails as I must,
And the voice of my dream will cry in my heart
Till I die on my face in the dust.
Let me lie in the dust, in the blistering sun,
Let the birds pick the flesh from my bones;
Let the rains of the spring drown the fire in my heart
And build me a tomb out of mud and stones
But I will not sleep in the folded earth
Though the wind be cold and the night be long;
Where the tall pines climb to the moon-haunted sky
My voice from the hills will sing its old song.
Let me lie where I fall, in the dust and the sun,
Home at last; there let me lie.
I will ride at night on the lonely hills
When trumpets of south-wind shatter the sky.
---Bill Tolliver, 1955


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