This is the end of The Traveler series for now; written about that imaginary one all we have inside, maybe timid to ask the question or afraid to confront the answer.
A philosophical serie of someone starting a journey of search, undecided to believe and setting aside the truth because the truth can't be so easy to find, does't it?
In the illustration picture The Traveler, in agony, is shouting the last stanza.

Why after crossing over a green horizon suddenly
it ends showing a infinite vastness of golden sands,
has He been playing Traveler with a game of mirrors
just to demonstrate the untruth of was he left behind?
What were Moses thoughts abandoning the oasis with
his people, to the desert from the promises of the Nile?
Just to walk and walk and walk fifteen thousands days
in search, where, when, how, to that Promised Land?
How many horizons crossed on those golden dunes
never quiet reaching “that” horizon, the promised one.

“And I will say unto thou that walks beside solitude,
that if you have friends you will be a much blessed man,
becoming an oasis in a barren world that don’t want him
because he has something to share, an unselfish heart.”
Then, when aimlessly walking in search of something
or wishing to know where to meet that special “someone”
the Traveler should had packed a little more of faith
and a little less of gambler’s wishes, left it to chance,
there is another golden horizon holding the scorpions
which can make you immortal with just one little bite.

Slithering, one snake, the venomous Horned Viper,
temptress that skim across the burning desert’s sands,
no place for her to go roaming for a possible sinner,
if no Eva, there are no an apple tree were in to hide
in a forgotten from the gods most thirsty of all places,
far away to be confused any time with a rich Paradise
where nobody has questions to non existing answers
nor you will expected of Him creating another Adam
from dunes that will never be mud where’s no rain
and perhaps by this time God have much tired hands.

Another horizon, another ridge top from where to shout
“God! Where are thou my Lord? I walked and now stand
with my feet buried into the world of so much rejection
than even the Creation birds over you work wouldn’t fly”
Blistering skin hot wind, the only witness to his voice,
silence haven’t the care of Travelers words to understand
will impervious ignore the need for an echo, the noise?
just the murmur of protest around, from disturbed sands
that long, long ago, where dancing embraced by the wind
around the unbelievers man made shining Golden Calf.

Shouting in the sacred realms worth about forty years
the Traveler thought that now it was not a better time
to stop the search, fall down and let all those little grains
to cover him like snow will do, to sleep for ever inside,
abandon those horizons going forever to many a nowhere
promise of finding among universes multitude the only One
that could face to face tell him being made as His image,
that He was his Father, that because he had no faith, cries
would prevail, and proof will be not provide to him…
“God, where are thou my Lord, was it all a miserable lie?”