To the weak that toil beneath the sun

And long for rest under the shade

Have you my friend even begun?

To make your way to where it’s laid?


But who can find the way so far?

And climb themselves up there so high?

And who can weather many storms?

The ones that come to see you die.


We long for what is there my friend

And wish that it were ours to hold

But wishing never made it so

And many trying won’t die old.