From days when maps from trees did point west,
To satellites that speak the turn with voices cold,
Thou knew’st each turn my wanderlust quest,
A steadfast heart in thy time-weathered fold.
Thy engine’s hum, a tireless symphony to me,
Now fades into a silence that’s bittersweet.
No more dusks nor dawns chased wild and free,
No more youthful exploits from thy driver’s seat.
Yet in my soul, thy ghost shall always steer —
My carriage past, my compass through the years. #donvy
