Past altars and stages,
past temples and taverns,
past classy graveyards,
past street market’s jabber,
past peace, and past woe,
past Mecca and Rome,
burned by the sun’s blue glow,
the earth the pilgrims roam.
They’re heavily injured and hunchbacked,
they’re hungry and almost naked,
their eyes are full of sunset,
their hearts are full of daybreak.
The deserts are singing behind them,
sheet-lighting breaks out abruptly,
up above the stars are igniting,
and birds are screaming gruffly:
that the world will remain the same,
yes, indeed, the same,
dazzling with snowy game,
with fondness its unlikely name,
the world will remain underhanded,
the world will remain forever,
perhaps it can be comprehended,
it has no limits, however.
Which means it will make no sense
to believe in yourself or Lord.
…And the things that remain are, hence,
the illusion and the road.
All sunsets remain in-service,
all daybreaks are still in splendor.
The soldier will muck earth’s surface.
The poet will be its defender.