The weary pilgrims’ parade of faded and tattered banners, their worn habiliments of time weathered hues scalloped by the road’s grasping thorns, nears the end of its ageless journey. The tired and ever watchful guard, knights with unblinking eyes and foot-soldiers with their varied armaments, scan the often treacherous curling, morning mists for hidden ambushes or waiting traps. O rising ether, caught in the golden morn, how like a fiery gold you appear in your twirling ascent—how alive and happy you are to my eye compared with this sad cavalcade. Effervescent dance of dawn, can you tell me who these passing shadows be whose cowled and helmed faces thrill me with implications, like impressions of forgotten dreams?
The sun climbs to its strength and drives the mists and shadows away. I see no longer the pilgrims’ longing procession nor the cool flames of the rising dew. Such mysteries come and go, as though dreams, without beginning nor end, and their meaning is far from me. Still, I write them down, thinking them hints of something I shall learn in time. Perhaps, it is enough, for now, just to see.
Tale Told 