The Path Alone

There are many ways which a man may take, many paths upon the which his sole has tread as he ponders his ways and declares his intentions.

He knows not which path leads to fruitful orchards or to the wildernesses of stone and sand but, only knows that the journey continues.

Onward it propels him, to stop he finds no rest lest the footprints of the past overtake and pass him by, taunting the struggles that slow his pace.

The coolness of the morning or the heat of the day, what does it matter if the thoughts of the heart distract him from the journey ahead.

 

To the fields on his right, he sees the remnants of battles fought, the broken Helms and cast aside shields even as the flowers grow between rusty blades.

His gaze sweeps the left as the hills gradually rise, and there against the colors of heaven, lie the majestic ruins where men once ruled.

In their pride, the banner of vanity was once unfurled, to rise with the winds and to soar above the clouds,

and the higher they flew, the weight of their transgressions pulled them down till the stones of their thrones became their final resting place.

 

His eyes look ahead, wanting to see, wanting to know, for the mind is penetrating, but the land yields not the secrets of the journey but lies in wait.

The gods have not been kind nor cruel in their intentions, but only indifferent to the agony of men who suffer, when questions asked answers denied.

Is there no counsel on the path he must take, but only silent footsteps, the mind to keep company, the steps to count, the losses to add?

Was this the intention of those who had trod, the trail of earth and stone, from times immemorial to the present at hand?

 

The hill has been crested, a valley lays below, the sparkle of water, the shade of the trees, will give him a respite of mind even as the path goes on.

For what he searches or what he will find, cannot be discovered, the path on which he travels will not let him know further, neither the eye.

The distance traveled if reckoned in years, are mere teardrops in an ocean so vast as time, the soul remains perplexed as to the purpose.

A journey to undertake, the choice was not his, for as his eyes were opened, the path lay before.

 

He has not seen another, for none travels the same, the path upon which he treads, for him especially was made, to wit, the seers of time.

Though he has seen from a distance afar, the obscure outlines, the others he knows, they must also take note that the journey begun, to each their own.

How wide and great the plain must be, allowing so many to travel and yet, none to be a witness of the spoken word.

For the journey undertaken can only be completed by one.