Days, weeks, months on this road
Riddled with stones, dust, and holes,
I sometimes doubt this loss of control
Over the surroundings I behold
Was worthy price for the loss of my load.
What ill might this wasteland bode?
“Remember in the olden days
When hour by hour we could gaze
On wild flowers all ablaze
With beauty gathered from star-rays?
But now we stumble hot and dazed
Where beauty long ago...
