The Lonely Stirrup: A Symbol of a Rider Who Will Not Return

It wasn’t the land that made cowboys—it was their untamed spirit.

Upon the range where wild winds blow,

A stirrup hangs, a tale of woe.

Its leather worn, by sun and time,

A phantoms echo, a silent rhyme.

The sun-kissed plains, stretch vast and wide,

Where once a rider strode with pride.

Now shadows linger, whispers blend,

In every breeze, a journeys end.

A campfire’s glow flickers alone,

Beside a saddle now overthrown.

The coffee cools, the chair stands bare,

As memories dance through evening air.

So raise a glass to skies of blue,

To the stirrups tale, both sad and true.

For in the heart of the human race,

Lives the spirit of the lost embrace.