Death of a Prophet Part 1

In whispers of the desert wind, a prophet once did tread, A weary traveler with a heart that words did not dread. He bore the weight of ages, in the palm of his outstretched hand, A message fiery, born of truth, for every ear to understand. Yet fate, it seems, had other plans, a twist of cruel design, For he, the chosen one, the prophet, would not live to speak his line. The sands of time had shifted 'neath the moon's pale, watchful glow, And took him in the quiet night as shadows softly grew. With parchment dry and brittle, words of wisdom unspoken, His voice was lost to silence, and his eyes to the unbroken. The desert mourned him softly, stars above did weep, As the great sage's breath did cease, and his soul to heaven wept. A stage of gold and crimson, where his voice was to have rung, Lay empty now and lifeless, 'neath the setting sun. The people gathered, eager hearts, to hear the sacred tune, But found instead a quiet tomb, the prophet's words unsung. The speech he never offered, the truths he never told, Were buried with him in the dust, his story left untold. Yet whispers grew to echoes, as the sands of time did play, And soon the air was thick with tales of what he had to say.