The Weary Nomad's Lament

What toil doth plague the restless urban soul,

When forced to quit one domicile for new?

The boxes stack'd, a mountainous patrol,

Of life's collection, waiting to ensue.

Each cherished item wrapped with tender care,

Yet dread pervades the thought of their convoy.

The back doth ache, the muscles tense and wear,

As stairs and doorways vex and do annoy.

But lo! The final trip at last arrives,

The new abode, though bare, holds promise sweet.

Fresh walls to dress, new memories to contrive,

A clean slate where past and future meet.

Though moving be a trial of will and might,

New hearth and home make all our burdens light.