Return the borrowed money if they tell you.
Wear warmer clothes, my friend, when it is freezing.
And grab some food before the other fellows.
Get rid of anything bizarre and foreign.
You can start working and get married, can’t you?
However, I consider it too boring
And feel the luring call of the adventure.
I don't know what the hell inside our hearts is
That strange but so distinctly different substance.
The tempests seek and find our kind of people,
And drag us from our homes towards our freedom.
And most consider us some sort of cripples:
We need them but they think that they don't need us.
A lad like me one day invented vessels
To sail across the waves to distant islands.
Another was the first to tell the legends
And stories by the seashore after sunset.
The others were forlorn in distant ages:
The troubadours, the pilgrims and the strangers.
We are the only ones who love the deserts
And hail the sunrise in the mountains gleaming.
And we're the kind of people who were chasing
Their fates in Holy Land to find their meaning.
Our kind is quite simple: dusty sailors,
The mercenaries, vagabonds, daredevils.
The stink of leather, steel and cheapest ale is
For men who've never had their peaceful havens.
We usually have neither cash nor titles.
If you need gold - just try to look inside us.
Sometimes we settle down to stay together
With wife and kids, becoming clerks and bankers.
But still we leave it all behind to get the
Excitement of the way - and heave the anchors.
Mithrandir doesn’t have to make a visit,
Because adventure isn’t boring, is it?
The staff, the bag, the song are all that matters,
Because the path awaits and there your fate is.
Not all who wander are alone.
The road goes ever on and on...
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