The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
(a ballad in the spirit of a classic quest)

In the crushing Mid‑western dusk the hills of Sierra rise,
Their stone‑and‑sand cloaked wealth beneath a cracked Spanish sky.
Three men, a miner, a clerk, a wanderer lost to dreams,
Each with a hollow heart that yearns for mortal gleam.

They barter words for wolf‑scarred hopes in the sun‑bleached dust.
Jobs aplenty, yet the spoils are scarce, and the soul turns to rust.
Ppm of an ember, 700‑merit greed that turns the body cold,
As the track of gold is traced chart‑less, stone‑bound mold.

From the book’s old scarred covers a truth still rings bright:
“It is the quiet, sorry moment that makes the gold bright.”
Cabins in the daylight stencil, a flicker of the trees,
Twist as a vein of lies, leaning to the trees.

The priest in the pew in the fugitive fire,
"All talk and no mind." He whispers, flame's pyre:
"Gold does not keep you – it keeps you for ransom,
As the moon-water dries on the jaded wains."

They roam, they work, they hoard with a flicker of lust,
The walls of the canyon clinging sadness to dust.
Silver glint at the horizon, the horns of the mountain call
In a thunder that whispers: "When truth breaks the wall."

At last the mine heavy with hopeless, bark‑laboured quarrels,
Yields an under‑payed truth: all wealth is a siren’s hoarse.
The vista explodes into the sunrise’s sable blaze:
Sierra’s treasure, rampant as time‑tossed glaze.

It is that the heart become the wanting.
And brighter than any gold, the faith of the rescue.
So may the myth remain while the held dream remains.
In the rocks of the Sierra, the ember of hope forever sings.