By J. E. Coombes
I know the ground beneath your feet is rough;
The road ahead is paved with weathered stones,
Crumbling and cracked. Hear how that cruel wind moans—
Each blast erodes your will. You cry, “Enough!
Long have I travelled down this broken path,
Long has it tested me with countless trials,
Why must I trudge these gruelling uphill miles?
What fate is this, what vengeful deity’s wrath?”
Yet still the ground remains beneath your feet.
Its stones, cold and immovable, don’t care
That to you, your pilgrimage seems vain.
Those noble hurdles you refuse to jump:
Honour them dearly—they will guide you There.
Your quest will bold contentment render plain.