The Walking

I don’t know the way to find
things lost long in tattered past
thinking, searching, in my mind
I lose myself sometimes so fast.

If when all the victors flee
and all the vanquished find their home
Perhaps we will begin to see
and find our place, no more to roam.

But pilgrims walk for many miles
And on a sojourn find their way
but they are not at home with wiles
That people use to make them stay.

And so I walk on down the road
Leaving many once again
And I know I need the goad
Sometimes to start on towards the end.