Whoever Would Roam, Whoever Would Stay
Two sons were born beneath the old tree.
They grew together, both loved and free.
They traveled the fields, they roamed the hill.
They crossed the river, explored the mill.
They fought with dragons and giants tall.
Mighty warriors--they conquered all.
At each day's end, they slept safe at night.
A loving father tucked them in at night.
The father aged and then he died.
The eldest wept and the youngest cried.
The farm, of course, would be run alone.
So the youngest left, to find his own.
They looked into each other's eyes.
Beneath the old tree, they said goodbyes.
The eldest tilled fields, beneath the sun.
With his sweat and work, the farm was run.
A wife soon came to his warm, safe home.
He was always loved, but would not roam.
Each day, he dreamt of his brother free.
Always regretting that it was not he.
Years flew by, at last they met again.
Beneath the old tree stood two old men.
He told his brother of farming life:
No adventures -- only work and strife.
Oh, how he dreamt of the open road
And how he felt trapped in his abode.
The brother told of the life he led,
Of the long and weary road, he said:
Many lonely nights in driving rain,
'Twas a single thought that kept me sane.
That my brother was home, safe and warm.
A loving home, far from rain and storm.
Hard work I could stand, but this I swear:
The days alone were too much to bear.
His heart grew sad as he bowed his head,
And to his brother, the elder said:
What a tragic tale then, for us two:
That you had not my place, and I you.
His brother sighed, then smiled wide,
Thought for a moment, before he replied:
You've missed the point of this little tale.
For I'll tell you, brother, without fail:
Whoever would roam, whoever would stay,
We both would regret it, either way.