“I come to thee in peace,” said the intrepid interloper. “I am the believer of troubadour’s ballad. My creed is this land is your land.”
“I’ve heard of it – decades ago. That was the utopian anthem,” exclaimed the reactive relic. “The song’s sentiment has been sanitized, bastardized and brutalized. It has been buried in the cemetery of broken dreams,” the relic dismissively concluded.
“That may be true,” lamented the intrepid one. “but I detect a distant rumbling. A resonant sound, faint as it may be. This land may not be dead yet. Could the faint vibration grow robust?”
“Too late,” the relic demurred. “The land has been bought and sold. You are merely hearing a voice in the wilderness. A passing shadow.”
And with that parting salvo, the interloper uttered his farewell and disappeared into the wilderness.