How can the pilgrims find their way into the sound net yet lit by morning light?
The ground all covered with the dust of souls too old to care; the where, the how, the why or when of time.
To care if day or night should fall, at all
in this dark place where they must toil.
I sit here in the dusk of time and watch,
for who or what, not name, no name, to call and still I wait.
To you who pass this rock and see me here
the time is past and I must at last retire to the place
where home awaits.
For long, too long the call, the sound, the shape of
feelings, new but well remembered;
I am a stranger here amidst the angry horde.
And soon, too soon? there comes a beckoning light
and goodbye knows no words to tell, to say the feel of gone.
My heart it leaps, it skips, it jumps, it knows now every stone
and memory makes them jewels, treasures, keepsakes for another age
And suddenly a blazing light illumines all the land
and home and heart and love at last are all at hand.