Movement on the Path alerts a weary watching gaze.
Gray amid the gray, his stride, gentle in the starlight.
Moorlands of the pensive soul, watchtowers of his wants –
Find across the mist: those steps, upon that narrow path.
Cloaked in austere mystery, he floats above the mire.
Falling neither left nor right, he firmly keeps the way.
Raptures he my fascination, thinking he is I…
Were I that noble warrior of my heart’s design.
Thence I learn I am divided: twixt the near and far.
Here on the frigid ramparts, and there on glory’s road.
To watch, my hands and eyes are near, cold and in the dark.
To stride, my soul’s ambition far, brightly in the sun.