The Journey
Our road,
Is dust:
Foot-weary we move
Over that next ridge
And on,
Darkness descending.
We listen
To the voice,
Uneasily aware
But of what?
The village,
Arrived at
Offers no sense
Of destination.
Then,
In a room
Faintly lamp-lit,
Hands reach out,
Bread is broken
And we know;
Across seas,
Through the uproar
Of far white cities
To the world's end
Shines a road.
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