I the vagabond wanderer

 The mud has dried
The path into the village is busy
Sun lights up every hue of light brown
enthusiasm in the cheeks of villagers

They all believe in their local lore
Label me backward for not partaking
I push down my prepotence
And realize every belief of the human heart is beautifully ridiculous

Even the thousand I carry on my person
and the lucky few that contain my heart
They'll be singing soon
Eating and drinking

The one wisdom they keep above all
existence requires joy so create it
This humble joy made of local timber
simple ale and fare is worthy

But I yes I am unworthy
And move on to the periphery
The clumpy hard mud crumbling under foot
The beggers and lepers ignore me

But I am happy I dance through the breeze of summer
Worthless being I am Lost in the abandoned farms
Haunting their orchards and eating of their fruit
Just a witness to the villager's joy from a far

For I will never be part of their games
Their quirky certainty
Quaint delusions and folklore
that shape their world