No Country for Old Men

No Country for Old Men

The sun lies low over the whispering plains,
a copper stretch where dust and gravity braid.
No quiet road for tired, aching knees,
only the not‑so‑gentle bustle of a lone raven’s call.

A lorry of steel never pauses here,
its engine a ferocious heart, a ticking curse.
Below the dunes, there’s a quiet still, as the old world one day fled—
free‑spirits walking into the barren, trusting the wind’s unladen promise.

In that place, the silence bites like a cold winter’s gale,
and the weary soul’s map is inked with risk.
Old men, long‑gone in the eyes of a smirking “Illicit.”
Their compass‑pointed face, a money‑made steel‑clad sword that whispers: “Here, be sold to fate, do not dally with old trust.”

The pall of night falls, unknowing and unblinking,
shrouding the road in a scent of burnt wool.
With an aching cry, the weary lingers: “Who shall show my way from the shadows?’
But the gentles, united in truth, blood-stained truce chronicled by a heavy heart, bound the path in crowds.

The night air, restless as an oak, screams past:
One soundtrack in the outer risk of an indise that counts every beat.
A tender or a ferret? A simple cry with a desire to keep the good future naive, while the i‑idea of a<|reserved_200437|> for the world’s old-nated that glitters at the world’s.

No country — a lattice web of echoes, vast; the campaign of sorrow of the streets beckons true.
The wind's chanting, the circumference hungry incentive, feels identity in each pat.

So in the orchard of that world, quick and without a bright sign,
no green to leave memory, the winding deciphers still.

The silent winter wind of the old—

Darkly, the sky has found a path for… ⁈

No country for old-men,
our of the keen blanket beyond the open-headed wind…
It’s all run — in harvestuals and whole. ☕